


Identity Crisis

by KitCat992



Series: Identity Saga [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Avengers Family, Comic Book Science, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Mild Horror, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Not Canon to Sony's Venom, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker has the Venom Symbiote, Possessive Venom Symbiote (Marvel), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective Avengers, Protective Tony Stark, Story Continuation, Suspense, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Venom is a bad guy here, Whump, spiderson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-04 08:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 132,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20467859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitCat992/pseuds/KitCat992
Summary: It’s been months sinceRasputinandDisappear-O the Magnificentalmost sent Tony and the others to a watery grave. Things have been pleasantly looking up since then. For starters, Tony felt as close as ever with the kid. Of course, trying to distinguish the difference between normal teenage angst and something else that could be seriously wrong with his protege was proving to be...a challenge. And walking into the kitchen to find the Winter Soldier eating his food was not helping.Meanwhile, Peter has a whole new school year to look forward to. And with the addition of old friends popping back into his life, he was sure things could only get better from this point on. Sure, sleeping was a little rough lately, but no big deal. And he really needed to figure out how to remove this black slime from his backpack. But yeah, everything’s great.Things were great. Totally great.Although, now that he was being honest with himself, Peterwasfeeling a bit sick lately. And for real, what waswiththis black slime?(Or: OsCorp is inadvertently ruining everyone's life and Tony is done with this B.S. Protective Avengers and Shameless Peter Whump.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! Have a seat and please, fasten your seatbelt. For we’re about to continue what’s been a crazy, wild ride.
> 
> Before we start, I want to thank everyone who has followed me over here from Identity Theft. Your love and support for that fic still blows my mind, to this very day, to this very second. The response became so overwhelming that I couldn’t even find the time to respond to every comment that dropped in my inbox. That’s mind-boggling for me, it truly is.
> 
> Identity Crisis is the continuation of Identity Theft, of which was a novel length fanfiction that started out too big for my own capability to contain in one work. So with far-off aspirations and a doubtful laugh, I scripted and outlined the events following Identity Theft, including the unfolding plot lines of mere breadcrumbs I laid down in the previous story. I never thought I’d actually write it. At the time, I was just hoping I could finish what I already had in front of me.
> 
> By nothing short of a miracle, and with all your amazing and wonderful support, I did manage to finish that fic. And while lightning never strikes twice, I really hope you enjoy this continuation piece just as much. I don’t consider it a sequel, though you’re free to call it such. There’s still a lot of story left to tell, and I’m very, very, very excited to tell it.
> 
> So, use the bathroom before we get started and strap in tight. It’s gunna be a hell of a journey.
> 
> Thank you :)

** **Identity Crisis** **

**May, 2010**

Tony held his hand high in the air, his fingers gripping the stem of his champagne glass. The bubbly liquid inside fizzled and sparkled from the windows nearby.

“To not dying!”

His overly-euthanized smile was met with one _very _exasperated stare.

“No,” Pepper curtly responded, not amused, never once raising her own champagne glass to meet his.

Tony frowned, looking offended and slightly childish in his pout.

“What? Why?”

“I’m going to hurl something at your head, I swear —”

“What?” Tony asked again, nudging his glass playfully against hers. It only managed to spill some champagne onto the cut-stone flooring below. “Come on — to not dying!”

There was a pause. A deadly one, the type that came with Pepper’s scolding hot stare. Her eyes held enough heat that he was worried they might burn him, a firey Medusa if he’d say so himself.

“I’m not toasting to that,” she insisted, all the while curtly shaking her head.

“I think it’s a lovely toast.”

“And I think that palladium poisoning may have had some lingering and very unfortunate lasting side effects,” Pepper bit back, smooth-talking, quick for banter.

“Preposterous.” Tony smiled, his grin wide enough to show his back molars. “I’m all good. Promise.”

“Mhmm...” she eyed his champagne glass with hesitance. “I still think you should be checked out by, you know, an _actual _doctor.”

Tony’s eyes flickered up to the ceiling as he lowered his glass from its raised height.

“JARVIS?”

“**I have run every known available medical scan within the system to check for all possible abnormalities. With the help of Director Fury, it would appear the effects of this most recent palladium poisoning have been almost entirely reversed. It is my pleasure to say that Mr. Stark has returned to stable condition,”** JARVIS’s voice rang through the room, bouncing off the large glass windows nearby. **“Unfortunately, the state of his mental health may always be in question.”**

Tony couldn’t resist a chuckle, eyes staying locked on Pepper as he said, “Thank you, JARVIS.”

“**Of course, sir.”**

Pepper, however, seemed less than convinced. Her head cocked to the side, skeptical, and Tony could see her fingernails grip tensely around the glass stem to her drink.

“You think that’s all it’s going to take for me to believe —”

“You heard it for yourself, with your own two ears —”

“And why exactly should I have faith in the medical diagnosis of _your _intelligence programming,” Pepper looked upwards to the ceiling, “No offense, JARVIS.”

“**None taken, Ms. Potts.”**

“Because I wouldn’t lie to you.” Tony inwardly cringed when Pepper shot him a look, the same maddening look that usually had him scampering across the room. She earned the nickname Pepper for a reason, after all. “That is, I wouldn’t lie to you after _this_, not again, not ever again. You have my word. Cross my fragile, shrapnel damaged heart and any other silly elementary school promise you’d like to throw in. Here, you want to grab my pinky? I mean, I’d much prefer you grab another appendage of mine but by all means —”

“_Tony!”_

“We’re good. I’m good,” he stressed the last two words with heavy sincerity, his foolish grin turning more somber in the moment.

Pepper still seemed hesitant, frowning as she looked back and forth between both champagne glasses. He really couldn’t blame her, not after all they had been through. Her hesitance surely came with a cause — Iron Man, Obadiah Stane, Justin Hammer, Vanko — the hairs on his arm shot right up at the very thought of the crazy bastard. After that whole ordeal, Tony would be happy to never again deal with another psychopathic Russian in his life.

“That’s up for debate,” she finally said, softly under her breath but loud enough that Tony could hear the smile in her words. He took that as his go-ahead.

“Okay, let’s try this again.” Tony raised his glass, the bubbly carbonation beginning to sprinkle over and send droplets onto his knuckles. It only stung slightly, open cuts already beginning to scab and heal. “To...revoking an importune resignation. And new beginnings.”

This time, with only a beat passing by, Pepper lifted her hand to meet his.

“To new beginnings.”

Glasses clicked together and the otherwise small sound echoed across the large room in the mansion, accompanied by each of their sips.

Pepper was quick to swallow hers, adding, “Hopefully to one that _ doesn’t _include the entire destruction of the New York State Pavilion —”

“We paid for that.” Tony paused on his way over to the sofa, half sitting when he asked, “We paid for that, right?”

Pepper chuckled dryly, joining him on the beige leather couch. “Yes, we paid for that.”

Her weight dipped the sofa low, one of Tony’s arm stretched over her shoulder while his other laid on the armrest, glass in hand. He let out the breath he’d never realized he’d been holding. The sunset across the Malibu ocean reflected through the large windows spread across the room, streaks of gold and tangerines coloring the otherwise white walls and architectural beam structures.

It had been a _long _day, and even then that could be the understatement of the year. The moment of relaxation felt earned.

“Good,” he reaffirmed, taking another sip, relishing in the bubbles that danced across his tongue. “Damage paid for, that spicy double-agent Romanoff is out of our hair, Hammer will rot away with his boy toy in Seagate Prison — oh, I saved a kid.”

The sudden and unprompted statement had Pepper quirking an eyebrow high into her hairline.

“You saved a lot of people, Tony,” she needlessly reminded.

“That goes without saying.” Tony crossed one leg over the other, eyes locked on his champagne glass, the sunset through the windows making the drink sparkle in just the right light. Or perhaps that was his arc reactor glowing through his button-down shirt. “I’m talking about a kid, though, wearing this cheap-looking plastic Iron Man helmet — which by the way, when did we start selling those? We _are _selling those, right? China better not be black-marketing my brand and pocketing the sales.”

“Tony,” Pepper admonished, head tipped low, chin practically resting against her chest.

Tony waved it off with his free hand.

“Anyway, little brat was like, this tall?” It was more of a question than a fact, leveling his hand out in the air to a height that barely reached his sternum. “So what’s that, five? Six?”

Pepper huffed. “No five year old is _ that _tall. Eight, at best.”

“Don’t care, too young. Stood right in front of one of those Hammeroid’s, thinking his low-budget Toys R Us get-up could save the day.” Something about the memory, all too fresh in his mind, had Tony downing the remains of his champagne — which was nearly all of it, taken in one large swig. He grunted as he leaned forward to place the empty glass on the coffee table ahead, sore ribs making themselves known. “Go figure, Hammer’s programming was recognizing anything remotely close to Iron Man and I suppose China is doing a good job with our merch because that Halloween costume nearly got him blown to smithereens.”

Looking to his right where Pepper sat next to him, Tony was surprised to see she was actually smiling. For a story that had him reeling with hypotheticals, dizzy with_ ‘__what if’ _scenarios involving him arriving a millisecond too late, she seemed to be beaming with joy.

In fact, he nearly did a double-take to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him — she was, indeed, happy. The very opposite of a reaction he’d expect after telling her that _a_ _child _almost died because of him, because of Iron Man.

Why was it that the firey Medusa never came out when he expected it the most?

“You saved a kid.” Pepper laid a hand gently on his knee, words warm and tender.

Tony scoffed. “Barely. Nick of time sort of deal. Definitely would have been a messy spill to clean up if I hadn’t, bad PR, stocks down the drain...”

Tony hadn’t meant to trail off, his voice somehow tapering off amid a memory. His eyes stared absentmindedly ahead, the familiarity of guilt resurfacing with full force. At the time, it had been easy to ignore the harsh reality behind the incident. Adrenaline and fear had kept him moving — flying, fighting, desperate to save Rhodey and Pepper from Vanko, to save all of New York from that insane, creepy bastard.

But now that he had a moment of relaxation, the truth sunk in. And it sank deep, far into his core where it hurt the most, where reminders of Gulmira made his chest ache more than palladium poisoning ever could.

“I...can’t imagine having a child’s death on my conscience, Pep.” He realized a moment too late that he had said the words out loud. Tony cleared his throat before Pepper could even open her mouth, quick to ramble off, “You know, now that I think about it — scrap the kid toys, pull the plug entirely, do a world-wide recall on all of it. Don’t be selling that crap to them.”

“I think it’s cute,” Pepper said quietly, her hand squeezing his knee before letting go. “You’re creating heroes already.”

Tony was a bit slow on the uptake with her words, eventually giving a hearty chuckle when he realized what she’d said. Somehow hearing _kids _and _heroes _in the same sentence simply didn’t compute, not for him. This was never about being a role model, never about being someone for the younger generation to look up to. To think, it all started as a way to rid the world of the weapons he had naively created.

“I’m just glad I’m not that twerps dad. With an attitude like that,” Tony let out a long whistle through his pursed lips. “He’s going to be the biggest headache for his parents.”

**\- May 2017 -**

“Break. Break. Parker, you need to — break, Peter, BREAK!”

Tony’s nose nearly became one with the dashboard as Peter slammed on the breaks to the car, his seat-belt the only thing saving his very famous face from needing possible reconstructive surgery.

The engine beneath them hummed and the smell of burnt rubber began to drift into the open windows of the Audi. Tony hadn’t noticed, not over his heavy breathing, his face flushed with sweat, pulse racing and thumping in ways he knew wasn’t good for his heart.

This was it. This was how he was going to die. At the hands of a sixteen-year-old teenager who managed to swing thousands of feet in the air but couldn’t obey a stop sign if one smacked him head-on.

Peter smiled sheepishly from the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel tight enough Tony was worried it might break.

“Sorry?”

Tony shot his head over in his direction with neck-breaking speeds. His sunglasses dipped from the bridge of his nose, chest heaving, eyes bulging.

“You were _just _released from the medbay last week. Was the pudding that great? Were the nurses that cute? Are you_ trying_ to get yourself re-admitted?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “The car was going thirty-five, I wouldn’t get hurt if —”

“What about me!?” Tony all but shrieked, clutching his seat-belt for dear life.

This was why he didn’t have kids of his own, he kept telling himself. Over and over again in a way he was sure would prove more effective than a vasectomy ever could.

Peter decided it was best to keep his mouth shut. He slowly put the car back into gear, trying his best not to laugh as Tony flinched from his every move; from adjusting the mirrors to using the turn signal, the man was a complete spaz case. Not even Aunt May had been this on-edge with him driving, and he had crashed into six-and-half shopping carts with her trying to teach him.

_Ping Ping Ping _sounded from the blinker as he looked both ways on the road before turning — the very empty road, surrounding the outside of the Avenger’s compound where literally no more than one car ever seemed to be driving at a time — and once out of the interaction, he picked up speed.

To a whopping twenty-five miles per hour. Awesome.

Granted, it was faster than he ever went driving with May so he really couldn’t complain all too much. Plus, he was worried if he drove even one mile faster, Mr. Stark might jump straight out of the car and make a run for it. Something told him the _‘I have a suit on standby’ _joke wasn’t really a joke after all.

“How long ago was it that you took drivers ed?” Tony spoke up, his voice a little stronger as his breaths came in a tad bit calmer.

Peter kept his eyes straight ahead on the road. “Not long after I crashed Flash’s car.”

“That’s right,” he nodded. “You crashed that kids car. I’m pretty sure I paid out the insurance for that kid’s car.” There was a beat of silence before, “Why am I letting you drive again?”

“No idea.” Peter turned the wheel a sharp left, the car pulling in that direction. “In my defense —”

“Wouldn’t go there —”

“Getting my permit was so much easier than this,” he finished with a sigh, shoulders slumping dramatically with defeat. “I’m just not cut out for driving, am I? I’ll be subway taking, Uber calling, web-swinging Peter Parker for life.”

It was Tony’s turn to roll his eyes, especially as Peter mentioned web-swinging. _That _was a new habit he wasn’t all too found over. In fact, it had been shortly before the whole Mysterio and Dmitri incident that he discovered the kid was basically flying through the streets of New York at precarious heights. At first, it hadn’t been much of a cause for concern. But what started as the occasional swing quickly became more of a means to transportation, and he was about to tell the kid to play it safe, knock it off, when all that nonsense went down during their eventful spring.

Now, Tony couldn’t care less. Anything to keep Peter Parker off the streets — for the safety of the New York residents more than the teenager himself.

‘_We all have our flaws. Even geniuses,’ _he thought. _‘Mine was not knowing when to keep my mouth shut. Obie really hated me for that one.’_

“Tell you what,” Tony started, watching as they drove closer to the Avenger’s compound, more relieved than he was willing to admit that the lesson was nearly over. “There’s this long, empty, practically deserted stretch of road on Interstate Eighty in Utah. I’ll consider letting you drive then. Maybe. We’ll see.”

Peter grinned ear-to-ear, his smile brighter than the afternoon sun that baked through the sunroof of the Audi. Tony pushed up his glasses to better protect his eyes.

“I still can’t believe you’re taking me on a cross-country road trip, Mr. Stark,” Peter’s voice was thick with excitement, the one leg not operating the gas pedal practically bouncing in place. “I mean, I would have been cool with Paris, but this is —”

“You’re such a little shit, Parker.” Tony joked with a laugh, gesturing ahead with the hand that wasn’t clutching his seat-belt. “Okay, break up ahead. Right about...now — Pete, here. You need to break here —BREAK!”

**Present Day**

It turned out by the end of their trip, Peter didn’t drive once. Not unless he counted the time in Malibu when after filling up the car, Mr. Stark let him drive from the gas station to their hotel.

The hotel was literally half a mile away. Peter had been pouting so hard Mr. Stark said he might have burst a blood vessel.

It was all good, though. Because Malibu was absolutely _gorgeous. _The bright sun, the clean, salty air — what the internet showed him would never compare to the real beauty of it all.Peter couldn’t comprehend why Mr. Stark would ever want to move away. And yeah, sure, Mr. Stark eventually told him all about how his mansion had been blown up and they decided it was safer living in the Avenger’s headquarters on the East Coast but let’s be real, the sand between Peter’s toes had him sold on the beach life.

“Tonight, Peter!” May hollered from outside his bedroom.

“I will!” Peter shouted back, belly-flopping onto the bottom bunk of his bed, phone so close to his face he could see his breath leave marks on the screen. It was an easy way to ignore the open handy-me-down suitcase from Uncle Ben that laid on his floor, t-shirts, pants, and boxers spilling out that still needed put away.

He knew full well what May was asking from him because it was the same thing she’d been asking for three days now, ever since he returned home.

Without even thinking about it, Peter scrolled through his phone and opened his text messages. He’d get around to unpacking at some point. It’d probably be around the time he didn’t have any clean clothes left but hey, it’d get done.

A part of him realized that unpacking made him a little sad; it would officially put an end to what was an amazing summer. Even without getting a real chance at driving, Peter had the absolute time of his life. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d get the chance to spend an entire month traveling the country, and with _Iron Man _nonetheless.

He had to admit that while he never, _ever_ wanted to experience almost dying again — not even if you paid him a billion dollars — it certainly came with its perks. And despite _really _not needing the road trip as some sort of extra apology from Mr. Stark, Peter also didn’t have the heart to turn it down. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Mr. Stark seemed just as excited. In his own weird way.

Still, by the time the month-long trip came to an end, he admittedly missed the city life enough to say goodbye to the beaches of the West Coast, the deserts of Arizona and the odd alien-abduction culture in Missouri.

Both him and Mr. Stark were surprised to see the quaint little state had New Mexico beat in the ‘obsessed with aliens’ department. Something about a boy going missing in 1988 and the entire town of St. Charles being under this absurd impression that a UFO took him and — well, Mr. Stark had high tailed it out of there before Peter could learn any more.

The stories he came back with seemed endless and if he needed to keep his suitcase full a little while longer before saying goodbye to summer, than so be it.

Peter grimaced as he ran his tongue across his upper teeth, the sticky film of plaque a gritty sensation he’d been ignoring for too long. There _was_ one thing he needed to figure out sooner rather than later, something procrastination couldn’t take hold of any longer.

He pulled up a text message conversation with one quick swipe across his keyboard.

Peter laughed, letting his fingers dance across the touch screen.

A _ding s_ounded from his phone, another message popping up on the top of his screen.

Peter was mid-reply when his fingers stopped darting across the screen. His looked to his right where his bedroom door was mostly open, a respectable halfway point between total privacy and _‘sure, come on in! I’m not doing any embarrassing teenage stuff at all, May, I promise.’ _The sounds of his aunt’s footsteps could be heard even from where he laid, enhanced hearing picking up the sound of her humming, the neighbor’s television playing _M.A.S.H _for the five hundredth time this week, and the persistent drip of a broken faucet.

_Drip. Drip. Drip. _

His forehead creased with eyebrows furrowed tightly. From what he could tell, it was the sink in their apartment causing the noise. Not the neighbor or anyone else the building to blame but them.

Usually accustomed to fine-tuning his enhanced hearing so these sounds didn’t bother him, Peter was surprised to realize that ‘_h__oly cow!’ _was it annoying. Not to mention it was bothersome. Each droplet of water hit their yellow and white bathroom tiled floor louder than if Thor’s hammer was swinging down onto the ground. Of course, that may have been a slight exaggeration. Just slight.

A few swipes on his touchscreen keyboard and he finished his conversation with Ned.

“Hey, May!?” Peter shouted, already in a sitting position on his bed, phone discarded at his hip.

Within a few seconds, May had popped her head in between the door, shouting back,

“Hey, Peter!?”

“Whoa.” Peter cringed, one hand rubbing tenderly and dramatically at his ear. “Loud much?”

May cocked her head to the side, the smile in her eyes giving away her faux serious posture.

“I’m literally in the kitchen,” she sassed back, one hand smugly resting against her hip while a dishtowel dangled in the other. “You didn’t need to yell for me.”

“Right, right.” Peter nodded too many times for his own good, following up with, “Hey, do we have any tools to fix the bathroom sink? I can hear it dripping from my bedroom.”

May gave an incredulous laugh. “Of all the things those super-duper ears pick up on and that’s what’s bothering you right now? Didn’t you once mention that the Johnson's in 3.B play M.A.S.H about —”

“Five hundred times a day and _yes, _someone needs to introduce them to something new!” Peter gestured to the wall of his bedroom, arm extended fully. “Of all the amazing things Netflix and Hulu have to offer and they insist on playing those reruns day in and day out. It’s driving me _insane._”

“You can’t beat the classics,” May said, grinning at his over-the-top theatrics, eye-roll included. “And regarding the sink, just fix it yourself. You know...”

She gestured her hands in a twisting motion, the kind of action that indicated physical labor, in this case the tightening of a pipe.

“Yeah..” Peter drawled out, inwardly cringing, “last time I did I sorta broke the kitchen sink?”

May froze and her eyes squinted with realization. “So _that’s _how that happened.”

Sitting on his bed, Peter smiled sheepishly, somehow managing to make himself seem two times smaller than his physique actually allowed him to be.

May wagged the dishtowel in his direction. “I’ll call the landlord, see what he can do.”

His nod was enough acknowledgment for them both. May turned on her heels to leave, barely two steps out the door when she spun back around, the kitchen towel waving at the movement.

“Hey — last day of summer vacation. Any big plans?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t think so. Mr. Stark’s road trip was enough, ya know?”

His eyes drifted to his phone, laying by his hip, face down across the ruffled blankets and sheets of his twin bed. The last stream of text messages from Ned stood out fresh in his mind.

“But there is this party —”

“You should go!”

Peter shot his head back to her with wide eyes and an expression so wild May nearly doubled over laughing. He couldn’t help it, beyond confused — practically bewildered at her uncanny encouragement to attend some random teenage party. Which, before knowing about Spider-man had actually been a pretty common occurrence. Things definitely changed after Homecoming though, even tenfold after his whole_ ‘death fake-out.’ _Some days he was still surprised she let him on the trip with Mr. Stark, though he was sure some smooth-talking was likely had before a yes was even given.

“I feel like you have an alternative motive here,” he managed to squeak out,“You know, Ned’s mom is taking him out for dinner —”

May threw the dishtowel at him. “Well I’m not Ned’s mother and you know I can’t stand that woman so why would you compare me to her?”

Peter laughed, catching the dirty rag before it could land on his face. He tossed it right back at her. “I’m just saying. Feeling a bit kicked out here.”

May softened, leaning against his door frame with a warm smile. Her demeanor seemed to change all at once, her shoulders dropping, her fingers fidgeting with the seams of the dishtowel.

Peter hated when she looked at him that way, her face conveying a sort of sympathy for all he had been through. It only reminded him that she’d been through so much herself, more than she needed to with him dragging her along for this crazy superhero ride.

At the same time, he didn’t know what he’d do without her.

“Seriously, go have some fun,” she stressed, lighthearted with encouragement. “You had a rough spring, you deserve to end the summer with a bang. Hey, I’ll even drive you there.”

Peter picked up his cell phone, tossing it between both hands as he stared ahead at nothing in particular. If he was completely honest with May, he didn’t have much of a desire to go. Ned wouldn’t be there, he still got odd feelings when he was around MJ, and it was _Flash’s _party, which just meant all sorts of yucky things.

But the suitcase on the floor was still open with clothes needing to be put away.

“Actually...” Peter felt a grin pulling at his lips. “I might be able to catch a ride.”

May gave him a corny thumbs up and Peter stopped tossing his phone like a ping-pong ball. One person in particular came to his mind, someone he knew he could rely on no matter what. He didn’t waste another second once having made a decision. The chat was up on his phone in seconds.


	2. Smells like Teen Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “C’mon, Wilson, level with me here.” Tony sighed heavily, tension visibly stiffening the muscles in his shoulders. “I need you to get me some answers.”
> 
> “You want an answer?” Sam kicked off from the wall, putting himself closer to Tony. He inclined his head, coming off as serious yet sympathetic. “Fact is, most people don’t start really dealing with their trauma til a couple months after everything goes down. Don’t rush to throw him in the category of PTSD before he really has a chance to deal. If, or when, this catches up to him...that’s when you gotta focus on getting him the help.”
> 
> Despite his earnest tone and sincere words, Sam only got a hefty eye-roll in response.
> 
> “Fantastic,” Tony grumbled, squeezing past him to head down the hallway. “Glad I didn’t pay you for that expert advice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to do with ya'll. For real. You leave me so damn speechless that I might as well keyboard smash and assume that's as good as it's gunna get for.
> 
> Seriously, thank you! Your response to the posting of this fic has been overwhelming already! I was insanely, irrationally but still insanely nervous to post this puppy. I don't wanna get into the long, stupid reasons why but I was and hearing your wonderful excitement and encouragement has me all the more pumped to keep going!
> 
> So no more rambling - let's keep rolling!
> 
> "pavuk dytyny" is _supposed_ to mean "baby spider" in Ukranian. Since Sokovia is a made up country, most sources cite that they speak a mix of Russian and Ukranian, depending on the location of Sokovia they live in. However, Google Translate is as good as catching fish with peanut butter so I gotta let go of my need to be 100% accurate on this one.
> 
> Little fun nerd fact for ya'll:
> 
> Shantal (Wilsk) really exists in the 616 universe. She was a very minor background character in a few Amazing Spider-man issues from the late 1990's (96, 97, 98 I believe? I only have a few issues with her in it. She's just a background friend of Mary Jane)

It turned out to absolutely no surprise of Peter’s that Flash’s house was _huge. _

“Whoa…” he stared ahead at the luxuriant and expensive-looking home with jaw-dropping awe. Only when a bug flew into his mouth did he shake himself back to reality, the back of his wrist smacking hard against his lips and the fly that buzzed around them.

The house was enormous. It would have easily put Liz Toome’s old place to shame, though there were noticeably fewer windows on the modern architecture design. Gaudy multi-colored lights surrounded them and shined all around, and the bass of heavy music blared even far away from where they stood. It all screamed Flash Thompson, something the rich teenager would happily go out of his way to do for a simple ‘_goodbye summer __vacation__’ _party.

A car door shut behind him, followed by a smooth and friendly voice.

“It is not that impressive,” Wanda casually stated, strolling up to him with both her arms crossed over her chest.

Peter shot his head over to her with record-breaking speed. “Dude...”

They both stood in the middle of what felt like a never-ending driveway leading up to the house. Other-expensive looking cars were parked all around, some even having resorted to driving on the well-kept and overly-green lawn that he was pretty sure smelt and looked like fake grass.

Peter sighed with a shake of his head. Flash always did talk up his dad, something about being a prominent hot-shot city lawyer. It was a good thing they were able to borrow one of Mr. Stark’s Acura’s for the ride over. There was no way he’d survive the embarrassment of pulling up with May’s old, beaten down Pontiac.

“Okay,” Wanda caved with a smirk, swinging her hip against his. “It is...a little cool.”

Peter snorted a laugh, his hands tugging nervously at the casual brown blazer he’d decided to wear. It still felt like too much, like he was trying too hard. Yet the bass from the music ahead could be felt shaking the ground below, and the disco lights flashed with flare nearly a mile away from where they stood. So perhaps his _‘__trying too hard’ _would actually fit right in.

“You only say that ‘cause you live in a mansion yourself,” Peter mentioned, beginning to walk up the long driveway while other teenagers rushed and ran past them to get inside.

“As do you, my _pavuk dytyny._” Wanda’s many wrists bracelets jingled when she playfully tapped him against the shoulder.

“No, I don’t!” Peter adamantly shook his head. “I spend three weekends out of the month there. It’s like...a super weird joint custody arrangement with Mr. Stark.” He turned to look at her, his finger wagging in her face as he insisted, “That doesn’t mean I live there.”

They stopped short of the grand double entrance doors, frosted side windows reflecting a multitude of different lights from the party inside. Wanda’s face glowed yellow, orange, red, and blue as her smile grew wider. Eventually, even her back teeth were visible from the toothy grin.

Peter knew that smile. He had grown to hate that smile. It meant that she knew him well enough to know differently of what he said, without ever having to use her powers to get inside his head.

“Okay, so I kind of live there but you gotta keep it between us, okay? It’s way too suspicious if people start finding out I have a room where I also have my Stark internship.” Peter grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, the music from inside immediately blasting louder and the lights shining brighter. He stepped to the side to let Wanda in first. “It took Flash ages to believe that was even real!”

Wanda stuffed her hands deep inside the olive green jacket she wore. “Do you want me to —”

“No!” Peter walked inside with her, letting the door shut behind them. “No. Let’s just...let’s be chill tonight. Please.”

“Chill.” Wanda nodded, smiling. “I can do chill.”

Peter may have had the desire for a low-key, chill night, but everything around them was honestly _ far _from chill. Though Wanda looked around with an innocent sense of excitement, Peter seemed thrown off-guard and slightly disappointed. He should have known better — this was one of Flash’s parties, after all.

A DJ was taking up the entire living room, for starters, one that looked a lot older than any of the classmates Peter knew. Which meant Flash likely hired the guy for the event; more accurately Flash’s parents hired the guy. Despite the extreme size of the house, there was actually very little room to walk. Every corner had crowded with girls that were wearing way too much perfume and boys that either stunk of B.O or bathed themselves in their dad’s colognes.

Peter hated parties like these. It may have been two years since The Bite, but he had yet to grapple his enhanced senses in a way that made these moments tolerable. It was probably a good thing that Ned didn’t come. Peter wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his cool with all this, which would only mean a greater headache at the end of the night.

“Is that him?” Wanda suddenly asked, her finger pointing high above them.

Peter looked up, the balcony over the vaulted living room leading to a second-story floor that had to be over twenty feet high from where they stood. Walking along the stainless steel balcony railing was a shorter, cockier looking kid wearing a purple silk button-down and skinny jeans, his movements animated and enthusiastic.

“Oh yeah,” Peter sighed, watching as Flash came jogging down the staircase with someone following closely behind. “That’s him, alright.”

Even with the music blaring, Peter could hear Flash all the way down on the bottom floor where he stood.

“Jenny! Jenny, come over here!” Flash shouted, continually checking behind him to make sure the other person was following. “This is Jenny Carson, one of the _hottest_ girls in school and she’ll be — Jenny, hey, yo, where you going? Jenny! Whatever, forget Jenny. Have you met Blake? Blake! Follow me, you’ll want to meet Blake.”

Wanda shifted on her feet, head tilted to the side as she examined him. “He seems….”

“Penis!” Flash shouted loud enough for most of the crowd to hear, multiple heads turning to watch him point his finger directly at Peter. “You don’t need to know Penis, but I’ll introduce you on the way to Blake — Blake, hey, don’t move! I see you dickward, don’t move!”

“Yep,” Peter popped the _p _on his lips. “And awesome, he’s headed this way.”

Though he may have been the host of the party, Flash struggled to make his way through the abundance of teenagers all standing along the staircase. Most even seemed annoyed that he and the whatever other person followed suit tried wiggling by them. Red solo cups jostled and knocked around as they squeezed on past.

Once Flash broke through and hopped down off the last step, he didn’t lose his pace. He and the much taller guy were moving so fast they nearly walked right by Peter and Wanda.

“Okay, so yeah, this is Penis Parker,” Flash quickly said, hand waving forward. “Let’s keep moving —”

“Oh my god,” the voice boomed over the obnoxious dance music. “Pete!?”

Peter immediately looked away from Flash, his insulted expression morphing into one of shock. It didn’t take more than a second to get a clear picture of who Flash had been dragging along. His wide eyes and slacked jaw matched the other teenagers face, both of them copying each other with complete surprise.

“Harry?” Peter had to do a double-take to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. “Harry Osborn?”

Harry’s stunned laugh cut short when he abruptly pulled Peter into a tight hug, so suddenly that it caught everyone off guard. Including Peter, spider-sense be damned.

“I can’t believe...wow, Pete!” Harry clapped his hand roughly against Peter’s back, still laughing, each one lighter than the last. “Oh my god, what has it been? Five years?”

Peter chuckled, pulling away with a nod. “Uh, yeah. Something like that. Middle school, I think? So five years.”

Harry shook his head, grinning cheek to cheek.

“Too long, pal. Too long.” His mouth was open and ready to say more when he caught sight of the red-headed woman standing quietly next to Peter. She smiled softly at them both, keeping mostly to herself.

“I am so sorry, where are my manners?” He laid an open palm across his chest. “Hi, I’m Harry. You must be Peter’s…?”

“Friend. She’s my good friend,” Peter was quick to cut in, keeping any assumptions from being tossed around. “Wanda, this is Harry Osborn. We, uh...we go back.”

“He’s being modest. I met him in grade school.” Harry stepped forward, arm outstretched for Wanda to shake. His smile was so broad that his eyes nearly crinkled shut, while his grip on her hand was gentle and respectful. “I knew this nerd back when he was using legos in Kindergarten to learn arithmetic math.”

Wanda’s stifled laugh was barely heard over Flash’s blubbering, nearly unintelligible sounds failing to make words.

“Wait, wait, _wait! _Hold on. You were friends with Penis Parker?” Flash stepped between them both, and at that moment his smaller height had never been so noticeable. While Peter had never been considered tall, Harry stood a good six feet, easily overpowering Flash by five inches.

With a forced grin, Harry put a hand against Flash’s shoulder. “Come on, dude. It’s 2017. Lay off the homophobic stuff, okay?”

Taken aback, Flash immediately shook his head. “Yo, I’m not —”

“Hey, Wanda,” Harry’s attention was already elsewhere, his head tilted to the side as he studied the girl in front of him. “You’re one of those Avengers, aren’t you?”

Peter looked more shocked than Wanda, who acted like the realization was nothing more than a common occurrence to her. Which, in hindsight, likely was. Peter hadn’t taken the step to reveal his identity yet, and likely never would. Wanda, however, lived her daily life in the open right alongside Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. It was hard not to, what with unfortunate events forcing her face the public limelight.

So her smile, warm and friendly, came like second nature.

“Something like that,” she answered, her hand going to rest against Peter’s bicep. “And any friend of Peter’s, no matter how long ago, is a friend of mine.”

Her smile began to lessen the closer Flash crept near her, going so far as to have his tacky silk button-down grazing against her green jacket. Peter watched apprehensively, eyebrows furrowed low, one eye squinting with suspicion.

“So then, Wanda...” He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, just as she shot her head over towards him with the dirtiest glare any of them had ever seen.

“I do not like you.” Her words were clipped, short, tongue heavy with her Sokovian accent.

“Most people don’t.”

Flash’s face bloomed a hot red, flushing noticeably even under the array of different party lights. The embarrassment quickly turned to annoyance when the other voice joined their conversation.

The four turned around. Standing against the wall and eating a granny smith apple was a girl their age, eyeing Flash with discontent.

“Hey, MJ!” Peter exclaimed, his voice unintentionally squeaking in pitch. He cleared his throat a few times before speaking again. “It’s uh, it’s good to see you here.”

MJ raised an eyebrow high.

“Yeah...I thought I could write a paper on the mating displays of America’s one percent.” A few chews in and she followed up with, “Ned said you’d be here, so that seemed like a good opportunity for a comparative analysis.”

The pause that fell between them was one filled with rowdy dance music and five hundred different conversations happening at once, none of which were even remotely interesting to anyone expect, say maybe Flash.

Peter was starting to wonder who had picked out the music for this party. A new song started up, and he couldn’t help but think about how _awful _the selection was. His playlist with Ned, MJ, and most recently Wanda had much better taste than whatever this overpaid DJ was cranking out.

Wanda suddenly jerked an elbow against Peter’s side, startling him from his thoughts.

“Uh, right!” He pointed a sharp finger next to him, so rigid it almost didn’t look real. “This is Wanda.”

Wanda smiled and gave a small wave, meeting MJ’s outstretched hand and receiving a casual shake of sorts, if she could even call it that. It felt more like some sloppy handshake made up on the spot. She was pretty sure an attempt at a fist bump was merged somewhere in the mix as well.

“Cool. Finally get to meet the tough bitch from Sokovia.” MJ pulled away, tossing her apple in the air and catching it seamlessly with one hand. “You got good taste in music.”

Flash nudged his way dangerously close to Wanda’s side. “You know, all the ladies say I have good taste in music too. Why don’t we —”

The stare Wanda proceeded to give was enough to send Flash scattering across the room, the heat that spread across his cheeks hot enough to leave a steam trail following behind him.

It left Harry visibly impressed, humming and smirking in Wanda’s direction. Peter hid his laugh behind a fake cough and for MJ — well, it was more than enough to immediately win MJ over.

“Hey, follow me.” She swung her arm around Wanda’s shoulder like she had known the older girl for years, gesturing ahead with her other hand. “Maybe we can find some real food to eat in this McMansion.”

Before Peter could even say goodbye, the two had disappeared somewhere in the crowd of teenagers leading into the kitchen. At least he assumed it was the kitchen — he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around why a family needed so many rooms in one house.

He stood on his toes to get a better view, growing worried the longer he couldn’t get a lock on either of the girls. Peter had gotten to know Wanda well enough to be aware that she usually felt uncomfortable around people she didn’t know. Hell, sometimes she found herself anxious just being away from him at times. It had been like that ever since the whole _‘fake death’ _incident over spring break.

Suddenly, a fist had bumped into his arm, jolting him back to his present company.

“So...” Harry started, gaining his attention. “Peter Parker’s now a party boy, huh?”

“Huh? What?” Peter stammered, eyes wide as he shook his head. “Oh god, no! No no! No, I’m just...I’m here because...”

The bass of the music drowned out Peter’s voice. Suddenly, he honestly couldn’t remember why he had decided to come to one of Flash’s tacky parties, let alone drag Wanda along — not that she didn’t seem thrilled at the opportunity. Most of their ride over was spent with her gushing in excitement over finally experiencing a real _‘teenage activity.’_

All Peter remembered was not wanting to unpack his suitcase, and the leaking bathroom sink grating his nerves. How did that put him here?

It took a minute to notice Harry staring at him, waiting, his eyebrow arched high with amusement.

“I actually don’t know why I’m here,” Peter admitted, sheepishly chuckling to himself.

Harry nodded, glancing in the direction that the girls walked away before looking back at Peter with a smirk so smug it rivaled with Tony Stark himself.

“Seems like that MJ girl might be part of the reason why.”

Peter could feel his face contort into an expression he wasn’t sure had a name, muscles twisting in places that felt unnatural. Harry barked a laugh at his exaggerated disagreement.

“MJ? No! Psh, no, no, we're...we're friends. We’re cool. Friends. That’s...that’s what we are. Friends.” Peter aimed a finger at Harry’s chest. “Hey, what are _you _doing here? How do you even know Flash Thompson?”

“That kid?” Harry shook his head. “No clue, only met him tonight. You know how people get when they find out I’m an Osborn. Suddenly I’m their best friend.”

Peter hummed out a sound of agreement, not that Harry could hear him over the thumping bass coming from the surround sound speakers. Life had always been like that for Harry, going as far back as he could remember. Some days he even thought back to those moments when he’d be hanging out with Mr. Stark, paparazzi flashing everywhere when they’d just be trying to get a cone of ice cream at a local shop in Queens. It was similar to when Harry’s Chaperone would take them out to the park or nearby shops when they were kids. People always wanted a photo of what the Osborn kid was doing.

The moment of pause gave Peter a chance to do a good once-over on his old friend. Whatever growth spurt he had since they were eleven had done him well, almost better than the spider-bite had done for him. And even in strobe-light atmosphere, his vivid blue eyes were bright as ever, a charismatic twinkle in his left eye that always screamed _‘son of a businessman’ _to Peter.

Which reminded him — Peter furrowed his brows as the thought struck hard. If Harry didn’t know Flash...

“Then what are you...” Peter trailed off, confused.

Harry shrugged so nonchalantly it looked like his shoulders weren’t even connected to his body.

“I wanted to get to know my classmates before I started school next week.”

If Peter thought he was confused before, he had yet to meet ultimate confusion. The type of confusion that put his one-hundred-forty-five IQ to shame.

“I don’t understand,” Peter was still shouting over the music — _seriously, _who picked this trash? — and Harry was leaning in close to hear him better. “Didn’t your dad transfer you to some elite private school upstate?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically.

“Yeah. Alexander Academy Highlands,” he paused, giving an open window for Peter to say something. When he didn’t, Harry followed through with, “Ring a bell?”

The realization hit Peter like a plane crashing down onto the sands of Coney Island. If his eyes had gone any wider, he was sure they’d pop right out of their sockets.

“That’s the school that burned down over the summer,” Peter needlessly said.

Harry had pulled his cellphone out from his back pocket, scrolling through a few messages as he nodded at Peter’s statement. “Yeah, faulty electrical wiring in the cafeteria my ass. I swear one of those teachers was looking for payback because they cut pensions. Anyway, I was one of the lucky students elected to transfer to Midtown.” He pocketed the phone away almost as quickly as he brought it out, meeting Peter’s stunned face with a smile. “As I said...just wanted to know my classmates before I started.”

A sudden burst of commotion from the second story balcony briefly caught their attention, an uproar of yelling and hollering reaching even over the DJ’s music. Peter and Harry both glanced above them, Peter’s stare lingering long after Harry had looked away. It took another playful fist bump against Peter’s arm for him to tear his eyes away from the excitement.

“This means we’ll be going to the same school again, Pete!” Harry shouted over the fuss from upstairs.

Peter blinked back the shock. Five minutes ago and he had just reunited with one of his best friends from childhood. Now he had been told they’d be spending their entire junior year together. Just when he thought his life couldn’t get any crazier, there was always a curve-ball waiting around the corner.

“Wow, this is...” he couldn’t even hear himself as he shouted, “this is so cool!”

“Isn’t it!?”

The noise was becoming overwhelming, even for Harry. The music combined with the rowdy activity from upstairs echoed in the vaulted living room and bounced off the ceilings despite there being enough occupants to stifle the sound.

“Hey, listen...” Harry wrapped his arm around Peter, pulling them both to a corner of the room. There was a little less noise to deal with in the small spot, though not by much. Once there, he held his hand firmly on Peter’s shoulder.

They stared at each other for a moment that felt longer than it actually was.

“I’m so sorry about Ben,” Harry finally said.

Blood rushed through Peter’s ears the very second Harry finished his last syllable, nearly muting the tacky dance music that had once been threatening to make him go deaf. His response got caught in the swell that grew in his throat.

It was going on three years now, and Ben’s name still stung as harshly as it did back then. Peter tried not to let his mood sour, tried not to let the smile on his face look as insincere as it felt. But he was doing as good of a job as the fumbling freshmen boy nearby that was trying not to act drunk when they were so clearly very intoxicated.

“Yeah,” Peter nodded, the party around him suddenly coming back to life, noise returning with a crystal clear boom.“It’s, uh...yeah, thanks.”

He looked everywhere but straight ahead, his eyes actively avoiding Harry’s. The grip on his shoulder squeezed tightly as Harry fought to get his attention.

“No, man, really. I feel awful,” he insisted, making sure to look Peter straight on. “I didn’t call, I didn’t text, I didn’t do anything. That was wrong of me. You were there when my mom passed away —”

“And you were there when my parents died,” Peter was quick to interrupt. “It’s okay, I get it. I’m sure you have a good excuse. And, I mean, even if you don’t...we just...we moved away from each other, and we fell apart. It happens, you know?”

Harry adamantly shook his head, his other hand going to rest on Peter’s other shoulder, both grips firm on his collarbones.

“Not again. You hear me? You and me, us meeting up like this, it’s a sign,” Harry was yelling again, despite having relocated to the corner of the room. The noise from above increased by a tenfold, a complete ruckus drowning out their conversation. “We got the entire school year ahead of us, Pete. Just imagine the possibilities.”

Peter found a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips, his old friend’s enthusiasm leaking towards him. It was one of the things he had always liked most about Harry. His excited and charisma was so contagious, so easily spread from one person to the next. It was a gift he had inherited by his parents, mostly from his late mother though his father had a small role to play in it as well.

The memory immediately spawned the question, “Hey, how’s your dad doing?”

Harry’s face froze, his expression locked in a grin that was no longer genuine. The party lights circling from the ceiling highlighted the stress lines that began to emerge around his eyes, no longer bright with the elation he had just a mere second ago.

Peter was on the verge of apologizing, his _‘sorry’ _sitting right on his lips. He should have known better; Harry’s father was never a good topic to bring up, not even when they were kids. But right as he went to speak —

“Dude, don’t fucking touch me!”

“Lay _off, _Zack!”

The rambunctious fighting from the balcony above caught their attention again, as well as everyone else standing on the bottom level of the living room. Nearly every head looked up at the same time. Color changing party lights lit up the scene on the upper loft, showcasing two guys Peter knew to be on the football team, Zack and Kyle, with a petite looking girl standing in between them.

Zack shoved a hand roughly against the more buff teenager in front of him. “I’ll goddamn do what I please —”

“Man, you’re drunk!” Kyle pushed right back.

The girl caught in the middle of it all stepped forward, both hands high in the air. “Listen to him, Zack, please —”

“Shut up, Shantal, you’re a fucking whore!”

“Hey!” Kyle twisted on Zack’s arm, roughly. “Do _not _talk to her like that, asshole!”

Their shouting, which had been present for a good eight minutes as was, began to reach uncomfortably violent standards.

Peter looked all around the room, the only one in the crowd not locked onto the approaching fight from above. His eyes were already scanning for an exit, or a bathroom, or anywhere he might need to dodge out towards and change into his spider-suit that…

That he didn’t have. Crap.

Just then did Peter’s eyes find Wanda’s, the girl standing at the kitchen entrance next to MJ. She looked tense, as worried as he was. They stared at each other apprehensively, both MJ and Harry utterly unaware that the two weren’t paying attention to the scene happening from above.

Peter furrowed his brows, upper teeth biting on his lower lip. His eyes told her, _‘I need to stop them before __someone gets hurt.’_

Wanda shook her head, a smidgen of a move speaking volumes. _‘__Don’t. You’ll expose yourself.’ _

“Oh my god!” Shantal shrieked. Both Peter and Wanda snapped their heads up to the loft balcony at the frightening sound. “Oh my god, stop! STOP!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Kyle shouted as Zack grabbed a fistful of his shirt, lifting him off from the ground and leaning him over the balcony railings. “Dude, fuck! Fuck, dude, stop!”

Shantal had both hands cupped over her mouth, screaming downstairs, “Someone help!”

“I’m on it! I’m on it!”

It wasn’t Peter, or Wanda, or even one of the fellow football members that came running up the stairs to put a halt on the dangerously aggressive fight. It was none other than Flash, who pushed through the crowd as he forced himself up the long staircase leading to the second story.

“Hey, dickward! Why don’t you screw off — shit!”

Peter watched in what seemed to be slow motion as Flash tripped on the final step leading upstairs. And although he couldn’t see what exactly happened next, it wasn’t hard to put the missing pieces together.

Zack, having been roughly knocked to the side from Flash’s fall, immediately lost his footing — and his grip on Kyle.

Peter’s thoughts and instincts were muddled as screaming that came from all around. He watched with wide, terror-filled eyes as Kyle came fumbling over the balcony railings and nearly plummeted down the twenty feet from above, his fall stopped short the moment Zack managed to latch onto his one ankle.

“Kyle — fuck!” His scream barely cut over everyone else’s, Kyle’s included. “Dude, I got you, I got —!”

Peter didn’t have time to worry about exposing his identity. He didn’t have time to even _consider _caring about exposing his identity. His feet moved beyond his control; his hand stuck deep into his back pocket as his body ducked and twisted around multiple people without him even thinking twice.

‘_Find a hiding spot, find a hiding spot!’_

There was a wall in the hallway clear of any crowds, where Peter instantly crouched low to his knees, back resting firmly against the drywall behind him. He fumbled with the square device in his palm, as small as a board game dice until he squeezed it tightly between both closed hands. Within seconds his web-shooters sprung to life, attaching around his wrists with a life of their own.

‘_Thank GOD Mr. Stark let __me __upgrade with__ his nanotech!’ _

“Someone help!” Shantal continued to yell, half crying and half hysteric. “Oh my god, someone, someone help them!”

“Hang on!” Flash jumped forward, latching onto both of Zack’s calf's. The weight of the two combined teenagers pulled him right over balcony railings. “Hang on, hang on, oh shit, shitshitSHIT!”

Peter craned his head from over the wall that separated him from the living room. He could feel his eyes grow wider, beyond what he thought was possible. It was like a bad video buffering on YouTube. Each frame brought something new, and just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse —

“Oh my god!”

“ShitshitFUCK!”

“Someone help them —”

“OH GOD!”

“HELP!”

By the time Peter turned his head, Kyle and Zack were already plummeting the twenty feet down to the living room below. Flash, having fallen with them, held onto the balcony railings with one hand, dangling in panic.

A bright red glow tore through the party lights.

The entire room gasped, so sharp and so loudly that it felt as if all the oxygen in the room had been depleted.

And then it went quiet.

That was, aside for the hum of magic that began to whir around them. The sound was mystical, beyond what any of the kids had heard or seen before.

Everyone except Peter, who was the first to catch sight of Wanda across the way, She still stood at the kitchen entrance, the only difference now being the two arms she held out. Her fingers spread far apart and knuckles bent at odd angels as red energy came pouring from her hands.

The same red energy that held Kyle and Zack suspended in the air.

“Oh my god...” More than one person whispered. “Is she…?”

“Is that…?”

“Is anyone recording this?”

“Holy crap...”

“Dude, tell me someone’s recording this!”

One by one, the room burst into activity, hushed murmurs eventually overpowering the sound of magic that hung in the air. Carefully, slowly, Wanda lowered both boys down the remaining height to the ground below.

Flash’s holler tore through the temporary calm. “Help! Lady, yo, help! I’m slipping! I’m slipping – shit, help!”

Peter shot his head back up where Flash dangled from one grip on the balcony railings. Even from a distance Peter could see the grip weakening, like panicked sweat was slowly stealing his firm latch.

And then he let go with a scream.

It took all of a second for Peter to make a decision. In that second, he spared a glance with Wanda, who looked as panicked as he did. She couldn’t lose her hold on either of the two boys to save the third.

So Peter did what he had to do.

Crouched low and hand to the floor, he shot a strand of webbing out the clearest path he could manage. It landed directly where he wanted it to – the sofa. With one hard yank, he pulled it forward. The legs screeched against the tile flooring below them as he rushed to get the furniture directly under Flash.

It was close. Closer than Peter was ever comfortable with. Flash landed back first onto the couch; his one leg closed under him in a way that accompanied the loud _CRACK _of the furniture breaking beneath his fall.

“FUCK!”

Wanda safely lowered both boys to the floor below, only Kyle landing on his feet while Zack drunkenly fell to his knees, where he promptly puked.

Hidden by the wall in the hallway, Peter cringed as Flash cried out, cursing up a storm he’d never repeat even on a dare. Though a broken bone was better than cracking his head open, Peter still felt a twinge of guilt at what he personally knew wouldn’t be an easy thing to deal with. Hell, he even felt sympathy pain crawl up his own leg at what little he saw through the mob of teenagers that began to huddle around Flash.

Kyle, the first to gain his composure upon landing, looked down at Flash with pure disgust.

“Holy...dude, that’s...”

Shantal screamed from above, “Someone call 911!”

Flash, in horror, stared at his mangled leg, the limb bent at an angel it most certainly wasn’t supposed to be. He nearly puked himself, and he wasn’t sure if that was because of Zack’s own vomit stinking up the room or the frightening sight below him.

Kyle gulped back his sickness. “That looks _bad._”

“They’re on their way,” someone screamed nearby, “they’re on their way!”

Reality quickly hit hard when Flash realized what he had heard.

“What!?” He tried sitting up on the couch, quickly falling back down with an agonizing yelp. “No! No, call them back! Tell them not to come! Don’t bring the cops here! Fuck, dude, there’s alcohol here, they can’t come!”

Kyle shook his head. “Dude, your leg —”

“I don’t care about my leg!” Flash screeched, his voice cracking in pitch. “My dad is going to kill me if he finds out I had alcohol here!”

Peter weaved through the masses without so much as an apology, desperately attempting to reach the kitchen entrance where Wanda was. He had reached for her hand long before getting close to her, tugging on it with desperation.

“Come on!” He hissed, nodding his head to the side. “Come on, we gotta go!”

She spared one last glance at the teenagers in the middle of the room, Zack still on his knees dry-heaving, Kyle hovering over Flash who was having an absolute screaming fit about the cops showing up. They wouldn’t be the first ones to leave; a handful of kids were already rushing out, red solo cups discarded on the floor and creating a mess to walk on.

“Dude, you can’t let the cops come here! You can’t — oh god, I’m dead. I’m so fucking dead!” Flash pulled tightly at his hair, nearly yanking his gel-covered-locks right out of his scalp.

“No dude, you _would_ have been dead if it weren’t for...” Kyle paused, looking around the huddled group of teenagers in confusion. He even stood on his toes to better see over the crowd. “Hey, where’d she go?”

The DJ had long since stopped playing, and the noise of approaching sirens began to get closer. Both Peter and Wanda were long gone from the party before they could ever encounter the sound.

“Anyone see her?”

“I don’t see her, anyone see her?”

“Holy shit, did she teleport out!?”

“Whoa….witches do that, right? They like, poof away and stuff?”

“No dipshit, they fly on a broom.”

“Dude...is _anyone _recording this!?”

* * *

“_New York’s Avenger's Scarlet Witch __caught__ fleeing the scene of high-school party gone wrong after reportedly using her powers on intoxicated underage boys. NYPD has __THIS__ to say about what they walked in on.” _Tony hummed, looking up from his phone and over to Steve. “Kinda click-baitey, don’t you think?”

Steve didn’t look amused. He didn’t spare a glance at Tony either; standing tall, arms crossed over his chest in a way that made him seem twice as big. And that was saying something, seeing as he already put the average male physique to shame.

His sight never wavered from the sofa in front of him, eyes locked straight ahead.

“What do you two have to say for yourselves?”

Sitting side-by-side on the love sofa was Wanda and Peter, both seeming equally annoyed and beyond frustrated. While Wanda had become preoccupied examining at her nails, Peter found himself staring at the floor where his sneakers scuffed across the marble flooring. They both did anything to avoid the glaring daggers from both the men towering over them.

“It does sound a little click-baitey,” Peter mumbled, kicking along the toe of his shoe. “Also didn’t expect it to go that viral that quickly...or for you to find out before we even got home.”

It was true. Neither Peter nor Wanda expected to get a text message in the car on their way back from the city, all but demanding they meet up in the common room _‘at once’ _— Steve talking, of course. Tony’s messages were a bit more...colorful.

“You didn’t —?” Tony shook his head free of his stutter, shock rendering him momentarily discomposed. “Who do you think has alerts set up for whenever an Avenger, of any name, of any variation _of _said name gets mentioned in social media? Who do you think gets first word on these type of scandals?”

Peter shrugged. “TMZ?”

Steve’s face grew more serious, if that were even possible. If he weren’t the epitome of perfect health, Peter would have been worried that he’d have a stroke then and there.

Tony’s head shot up with disbelief, eyes so wide they would have rolled straight out of his head if they weren’t attached.

“He’s got jokes,” Tony scoffed, looking back over to Steve. “Would you look at that, the kid’s got jokes.”

“Peter, this is serious.” Steve wasn’t laughing. His lips pursed tightly together while his blue eyes held that infamous Captain Rogers disappointment that drove them up all the wall. And in Peter’s defense, Tony hated it just as much. It just so happened he and Cap were on the same side with this one.

‘_Totally unfair.’ _Peter bit his tongue with a shake of his head, knowing better than to mouth off.

“It is not serious!” Wanda threw her hand on down on the armrest, the smack of skin against leather catching them off guard.

Peter’s eyes went wide, head craning over to look at her in barely contained shock. Apparently she did _not _know better than to mouth off. That, or she just didn’t care.

“You are making a big deal over nothing,” she insisted, her tone giving off that impression of not caring.

Steve quirked an eyebrow high in the air. “You’re not one to talk right now, Wanda. It’s _your _name that’s being scandalized on the internet.”

“And so what?” Wanda let her pointer finger chip away at the cracked and broken nail polish on her thumb. She found the bits of purple that fell into her lap to be more interesting than either of the two men. “The internet spread lies and bad things to harm the reputation of others. I do not care what they say about me.”

Steve stood defiantly with his hands against his hips, and next to him Tony went to cross his arms over his chest. They changed stance simultaneously, not even noticing they were unintentionally copying each other.

“That’s great. Really, don’t lose that confidence.” Tony adjusted his hands to rest on his hips while Steve folded his over his chest.

It took less than split second, a half side-glance at best for Tony to notice. And he immediately gave the solider an offending look, disgust covering his expression at the realization.

“Unfortunately,” Tony returned to the conversation, ignoring the way that Peter and Wanda looked at them both, “when you’re spoken about, you represent the entire Avengers. All of us. And you know what doesn’t make us look good?” Tony quickly looked back down at his phone, reading off, “_B__oil boil toil and trouble: Witch Avenger __in a struggle. __C__aught __leaving high-school party busted for underage drinking.”_

Peter tossed his hands up in the air with exasperation. “Come on, I didn’t even know Flash was going to have alcohol there!”

Tony stopped scrolling on his phone, trying his best to ignore the abundance of articles and social media feed that continued to pop up, notification after notification bogging down his device. It was only going to get worse as the night continued, after all. They had learned these lessons long ago — that was, of course, the older members of the team learned them.

Sometimes Tony forgot there was a whole new generation looking up to them for guidance. And oh boy, what a mistake that was.

“Look,” he started, “I don’t even care that there was alcohol there —”

“I care!” Steve snapped, his head shooting over to Tony with record breaking speed. “That’s underage drinking, Tony. Peter’s only fifteen —”

“Sixteen,” Peter cut in, immediately shrinking underneath the furious glares that felt so hot he might as well melted into the leather cushions. “And that’s the legal drinking age in Germany, you know.” He slumped far down into the couch, chin resting against his chest as he muttered under his breath, “Found that out not long after I stole your shield.”

Steve held an open palm in the air, his eyes closed as he forced in a deep breath.

“Son...just don’t.”

Wanda roughly and quickly adjusted where she sat on the sofa, her wrist bracelets jingling loudly at the motion. “I do not understand what the problem is. We were not there when the police came. We did not drink, we did not go to jail. What is the problem?”

Tony swiped up on his cell phone, pinching his fingers together and then expanding them widely. The motion brought a holographic video out in the open space between them, a video from the _Daily Bugle _website playing in front of them all.

“That,” he simply stated. “That is our problem.”

The cell phone footage played in a loop; it wasn’t long, shaky and even a tad bit grainy for what cell phones were capable of recording these days. It showcased Wanda, both hands outstretched with red magic flowing from her fingertips, all directed at the teenagers that floated mid-air above a party crowd. The gasps and murmurs somehow seemed more demeaning now than when they were actually there, experiencing the moment first hand.

Wanda tore her eyes from the video with irritation. “What was I supposed to do? Let those boys _die_?”

“No! No, we don’t...” Steve went on to sigh, squeezing the bridge of his nose tightly between two fingers. “I’m not reprimanding you for saving their lives. But we work under SHIELD’s jurisdictional now. You know that. And you know that you can’t just use your abilities in public like that. We have to be careful with what we do and when we do it.”

Wanda crossed her arms over her chest, looking to the side as she threw back, “They only let us work when they see fit.”

Her words managed to melt Steve’s expression, harden frustration turning into something else entirely. He couldn’t help but remember when she had said the same thing months prior, back when the heat of a moment had them all making rash decisions. He should have known that she wouldn’t be able to distinguish ordinary rules from their importune judgment calls. It wasn’t fair to expect her too, either. Not when they had a habit of breaking the rules so often.

“Wanda, I understand we went against SHIELD orders to save Peter a few months back,” Steve started, much softer and more sympathetic in his tone. “But we can’t make that a common occurrence. When we turned the Accords over to them, we agreed that they’d oversee our undertaking as a team. That was the only reason one hundred seventeen nations complied with the repeal. If they see that we’re galloping around using enhanced abilities at high-school parties, they’re going to think we’re irresponsible. And they’re going to want the Accords back in motion.”

Wanda still hadn’t looked his way, her neck craned to the side and eyes staring somewhere far off at the wall. She shook her head, the simple movement somehow containing a mountain full of resentment.

“What you are saying is I was supposed to let those young boys die?”

“You shouldn’t have been there to begin with!” Tony practically screamed, hands clenching thin air with fists so tight his knuckles had already turned white. “You’re twenty-two! You don’t belong at high-school parties! And you!”

Tony turned to Peter, his finger pointing so sharp it might as well have been a plank of wood.

Peter gaped, pointing at himself. “What about me!?”

“You know what about you!”

“Tony —” Steve warned.

“You always tell me to get out more, and now that I do you have a problem with it!?” Peter shouted, raising his voice to match Tony’s.

“When I said get out more I meant get a girlfriend, not go to some sleazy high-school party with booze!” There was no going back on his anger, his buttons having been pushed in a way that shoved him right over the edge. “And besides, when have you _ever _wanted to go to one of those things?”

Peter shrugged dramatically. “I don’t know! Since tonight? What’s the big deal!?”

“You know what happens when teenagers are caught drinking?” Tony didn’t give him even a millisecond to consider responding. “They get fined, they lose their driving privileges. You _just _got your license, for Christ’s sake! And with all that time you had me spend trying to teach you how to parallel park —”

“I didn’t know there was alcohol there, really!” Peter’s voice cracked as he shouted.

Tony cocked his head to the side, pessimistically unconvinced. “Cut the crap, Parker. You’ve told me time after time what kind of parties this Thompson kid has. You damn well knew —”

“That doesn’t mean I was going to drink!”

“That’s how it starts, Peter!”

“Yeah, you would know!”

“Okay, okay —” Steve finally interrupted them, one hand against his forehead and the other out in the air. “Hey, you two need to calm down.”

The much-needed pause that fell between them was thick and heavy, making the air hard to breathe, even giving goosebumps against Peter’s skin. Or perhaps that was Wanda next to him, radiating off an energy that felt extremely supernatural and _off. _

He crossed his arms over his chest — okay, he pouted, flat out tired and aggravated at what was a minor incident blown out of proportion. Tony had turned away, and with how back heaved and puffed, they could only assume he was stress breathing to regain composure.

Only a few moments later did he turn back around, finger lazily wagging in Peter’s general direction.

“You brought your bags, right?” Tony asked.

The implication was there before he had even finished the sentence. Peter gaped, arms falling to his side as he straightened his posture on the sofa.

“You’re sending me home?” Peter’s breath hitched for a moment. He could feel same type of panicked boil in his gut that he’d get when May would take away his computer or phone. “That’s not fair, it’s my weekend here! I’m supposed to train with the team, you can’t—”

“Oh no, you’re not going home,” Tony halted Peter’s relief with, “And you’re also not training.”

A beat.

“What?”

“You’re grounded,” Tony responded flatly.

Peter’s jaw practically fell to the floor. “I’m _what?_”

“You heard me. You’re grounded,” he said matter-of-factly, this time with more kick to his tongue, as if every time he repeated the words it rejuvenated his soul.

Peter shot forward on the couch, eyes darting hopelessly between Tony and Steve.

“What? How? You can’t!—!” He groaned, so loud it could have broken his vocal cords. “That’s not fair, I’m supposed to train!”

“And now you’re grounded. Consider yourself lucky that you’re grounded here with a hundred acres and a movie theater.” Tony wagged his finger in Peter’s general direction. “I want your suit in the next hour. You’re not training, you’re not going into the city, you are grounded.”

“Okay, now I think you just like saying that word,” Peter huffed.

Tony could have laughed. In fact, a chuckle did escape his chest. “Oh, you bet your ass I do. Grounded, grounded, _grounded._ Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Stark, this is —”

“You too, Wanda,” Steve said, more solemnly than the vigor excitement Tony had.

Wanda’s eyes went wide. “How? I am at Clint’s farm this weekend.”

The way Steve shook his head looked as if his skull weighed a thousand pounds, such dismay in his body movements that truly brought to life the saying _‘this hurts you way more than it hurts me.’_

“Not anymore,” Steve calmly explained, no heat to his tone, only disappointment. “I already called him, and we both agree you need to stay here after all that’s happened.”

“You brought Clint into this? And he agrees with you?” Wanda stared at him, flabbergasted. “We’re being punished for savings lives?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You’re being punished because — can we really call it that? Seriously, this place has a lap pool —”

“You’re being punished because you need to understand the situations you put yourself in represent us all,” Steve diligently answered. “You shouldn’t have been at that party, Wanda. It wasn’t age-appropriate, and you didn’t think of the consequences that would occur if something like this had happened. You have to make better decisions with your spare time.”

Wanda was staring at them both in disbelief, a handful of seconds passing by as she struggled to formulate a response. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Finally, she resorted to rising from the couch in a huff of anger.

“The one and only time I go to party and this happens, and I get punished for it.” She pushed through both Steve and Tony to storm away, hand rising in the air and bracelets jingling with erratic movement. “Unbelievable!”

They turned to watch her leave.

“TMZ isn’t talking about me,” Peter immediately spoke up, still on the sofa. “Not even the Bugle is talking about me. Why am I being grounded?”

Tony spun around, eyes practically bugling out of his head.

“You were at a party with booze!” He shouted. “And no adult supervision! And three kids got hurt from it!”

Peter’s glare deepened, reddening with heat. “Wanda’s right. This is unbelievable. It would have been so much worse if we hadn’t been there! Kyle and Zach? Wanda saved them, and Flash would have been a pancake had it not been for me! We saved lives!”

Tony could feel his blood pressure rising, his throat constricting with irrational anger in the moment. He shook his head tensely.

“Yeah? And you’re finding out the hard way that saving lives doesn’t always make things okay.”

Peter scoffed, loudly, and he shook his head right along with it. His hands pressed against the cushions of the sofa as he practically bounced himself up, keeping his eyes dead locked on Tony as he stormed away.

“You’re being a hypocrite, Mr. Stark.”

The words echoed in the common room, or so it seemed for Tony. Normally composed despite anything thrown his way, Tony was surprised to feel his jaw slack to the floor, spinning on his heels to practically follow Peter wherever the hell the kid was running off to.

“_Whoa. _Okay, hold your horses and clean the stable because —”

“Tony…”

To Tony’s surprise, his eagerly, fast moving feet stopped in their tracks at the softly spoken sound of his name. With pained frustrated, he turned around, not surprised to see Steve’s blue eyes reflecting an insanely unrealistic amount of disappointment back at him. God, did he hate that look.

“Don’t,” Steve softly cut through his frustration, giving the smallest shake of his head. “Give him some time. Try talking to him later.”

Tony groaned, rolling his neck from side to side, wishing away the cricks and sores that came with the added stress of a teenager. Hell, he might as well say _teenagers _at this point. Wanda had practically come bouncing out of her shell of shyness once Peter came onboard the team, her urge to fulfill her lost youth coinciding with his young age.

He couldn’t be mad, not at that anyway. Even Vision had made mention that she seemed happier lately, more bounce in her step since becoming close friends with Peter. He just wished the girl would come to understand that rules existed for a reason, that they couldn’t just do what they wanted at all times.

And Peter? Well, that was a whole other headache he didn’t feel like touching right now.

Tony collapsed onto the sofa with a crack of his knees and a grunt from his throat.

“Please tell me you have an inkling of an idea of what we’re going to say to the big dogs about this one.”

It was an unfortunate drawback, having returned to SHIELD’s authoritative control. While it kept them together as a team — a functioning team, one able to take on missions first hand instead of dealing with the bureaucracy of the government — it also meant being held to higher standards by authoritative figures who knew them all too well. Director Hill barely bought into the crap they fed her, and Fury still played a role hidden behind the curtains to tell her first hand they were selling her horseshit.

Tony bowed his head and rubbed harshly at the nape of his neck as Steve stared off at a wall, hands against his hips while a deep sigh escaped his chest.

“I haven’t concocted anything yet, no.” Steve shook his head. “Can’t say I ever prepared to deal with this type of mess.”

Tony looked up, mildly amused. “Irresponsible teenagers? Pissy young adults? Enhanced magical abilities? Or high-school parties with booze?”

There was a beat before Steve responded, “All of it.”

He hummed and returned to his self-massage on the back of his neck. For a split moment, Tony marinated in their lull of conversation, the shrill ring of silence that hit his eardrums bringing a calm to the throbbing ache in the back of his skull. It seemed moments like this were far and few between these days, moments of quiet that allowed him to actually hear his own thoughts.

It was funny. Tony used to like staying busy, always keeping his hands moving, always working on a project, things to fix.

Lately though, all he wanted to do was take a moment to relax. To live in the present. He still hadn’t figured out if that helped in times like these or made it worse.

“By any chance was Peter like this during your cross country road trip?” Steve’s question tore through his train of thoughts, delicate yet tense in tone. “You know...grumpy?”

Tony huffed. “You call that grumpy?”

Steve shrugged. “I call it something.”

The man-with-a-plan was right. Peter was being..._something. _More on edge than the normal moody teenage self he had become acquainted with over the summer. Their trip had allowed time to learn the quirks that came with his behavior, things like how cranky he got when being woken up before eight am, or how whiny he became if the AC was set any lower than seventy-nine — that one nearly killed Tony, spider-thermoregulation be damned.

This, though? This hit him blindsided. Repercussions weren’t a new thing for them, they had already explored this territory before. The Ferry incident, the Chameleon mask, breaking curfews more than once, nearly flunking World History — May typically took care of the school related issues but it still bothered Tony enough to get involved. Peter was smart. Smart enough to know that sleazy high school parties would have booze, and even being present was enough to get him into more trouble than he deserved.

“No...” Tony trailed off with a sigh. “No, honestly, he was right as rain.”

There hadn’t been any issues on their trip, the entire month they spent on the road. He thought there would be along the way, possibly towards the end, possibly getting so sick of each other they’d want nothing more to do with the other. It never happened. Peter was grinning ear to ear, from the moment they left New York to the moment they returned.

It left Tony worrying what that meant for them now. It had only been a few months since...well, _it _happened. It was Wilson who had warned him things might take a while to really hit Peter, for the whole fiasco-under-the-sea incident to really take effect. Tony couldn’t help but wonder if that meant their storm was right over the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm here for the _real_ Irondad. Which includes all sides of parenting, good and bad.


	3. Grounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you sure about this?” she asked, her voice low.
> 
> Norman folded his hands together, letting them rest across his stomach. He observed the woman quietly, calmly, his jaw set tight.
> 
> “I have spent my entire livelihood in research studies, doctor. OsCorp has been sitting on what could possibly be the greatest genetically engineered protoplasmic cure for human ailments, and yet we’ve been too afraid to put it to the test.” He sat forward, his hands going to rest on the desk, fingers still laced tightly together. “The answer we seek could possibly lay in what we’ve already created. Who am I to deny the world such a blessing?”
> 
> Another log from within the fireplace mantle split in two, a hard snap creating a fresh burst of hot red embers.
> 
> Adler gave a curt nod. “Very well, then. You know what to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun nerd facts!
> 
> Doctor Frye is a little throw away to the comic book character of the same name from the Hulk series, who after losing his wife became obsessed with his mortality and tried to create a way to prevent death using gamma radiation. They never learn, do they? 
> 
> I'm seriously so excited you guys. I think every one of you is going to enjoy the crap outta what's to come and I'm happy to have you here for the ride! Thank you!!

The lab was quiet. There was a persistent hum that rang through the walls, a vibrationof advance technology wiredthrough the very Sheetrock built up around him. A silent sound, lingering in the background.

Peter found himself basking in the uncommon quiet, focused intently on the project he had at hand. Of course, if Mr. Stark had been here, it would have been a different story. There would have been music blasting loud enough to hear on the level above them, possibly even above that.

It wasn’t an exaggeration either. Many times did Ms. Potts come down to yell at them both, going off on a tangent that she had to relocate one of her meetings from the conference room that sat directly above the workshop to somewhere else in the building. The AC/DC they typically had blaring through the speakers would do that.

And Tony? Peter found it amazing that the man would just smile, as if proud of his achievement.

But Mr. Stark was out for the day, something about tasting wedding cakes with Pepper. It left Peter by himself in the compound. A place that had quickly lost its star-struck appeal once he realized ninety-percent of the building was either off-limits or crowded with SHIELD employees. Or both. As it was, his guest badge only worked on eight of the nineteen floors on the elevator.

What was the point in being Spider-man if he couldn’t even get full security clearance?

As much as he loved tinkering in the labs here — and he did, seeing as they contained way more equipment and technology than his bedroom or even school had to offer — Peter sort of wished his grounding had been at home. At least he was comfortable there, a.k.a could stay in his boxers all day long and watch _The Twilight Zone _reruns. Despite having the most amazing, mind-blowing, incredible sleeping quarters here, Peter still wasn’t able to walk the hallways in his _Star Wars _pajamas. Not without the risk of running into Nick Fury himself. Which, granted, was an insanely unlikely chance of happening, but he knew better than to test his Parker Luck.

Peter secured the sealed ends onto the small, metal rectangle device between his fingers and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed into a bucket not far away, an echo of a _ clink _resounding in the otherwise empty lab.

“How many does that make, FRIDAY?”

There was a slew of trays lined up in front of him, each dish containing individuals parts he needed to make his web cartridges. Gathering what he needed from the multiple different containers was like second nature, his hands moving without much thinking.

“**That would be the eighty-sixth cartridge so far,” **FRIDAY answered.

Peter frowned, still focusing on the task in front of him. “And what time is it?”

“**Nine thirty-five A.M.”**

Screws and metal casings dropped from his hands as if they had caught fire.

“Oh my god!” Peter exclaimed, running his hands down the length of his face as he collapsed back into his chair. “This _sucks!_”

Two-years-ago-Peter would have killed to be in present-Peter’s spot, creating a mass production of web cartridges that would last him a lifetime if he kept up at this pace. But two-years-ago-Peter also wouldn’t have been grounded with nothing else to do _but _create web cartridges like a foreign factory worker.

He scrubbed at his face, two enclosed fists rubbing at his eyes until they felt sore and raw and saw many, _many_ different colors. What could he say, two-years-ago-Peter was naive. If he had to look at one more web cartridge, he might just lose his sh —

“**Is there a problem, Peter?”**

“Yes!” Peter shouted, hands thrown out in wild gesture. “I’m so _bored! _There’s nothing to do here — and please don’t say there’s a pool. I know there’s a pool, Mr. Stark keeps telling me there’s a pool. I just — I don’t want to go swimming, okay?” He resisted the urge to shudder at the very idea. There was something about him and water that hadn’t gotten along lately, but he couldn’t quite pin why.

FRIDAY spoke before he could give it much thought. **“There is also a private movie theater located within the compound. I could give you directions if you’d like. It’s on the left south wing by ** — **”**

“I don’t want to see a movie either, FRIDAY. I really...” Peter sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling with a great deal of teenage misery. “I guess that I really wanted to train with the Avengers, ya know?”

He pushed his feet against the floor, the wheels to the chair he sat in rolling him across the room, spinning around in a few circles along the way.

“This was going to be my first weekend officially training with the team. I’ve been looking forward to this since spring break! But then Mr. Stark took me on our road trip — which was totally awesome, don’t get me wrong, I had a blast — but I already had to wait until I was healed from...well, you know. _That._ And now we’re back from the trip and I know I’ll have next weekend, and the weekend after that, but...” There was that sigh again, so deep his chest puffed out with exertion. He stopped at a nearby computer console. “I just really wanted to train this weekend. I was really looking forward to it.”

There was a pause, as if FRIDAY was soaking up his ramble and processing her response.

“**But you are not permitted to train with the team this weekend, Peter.”**

Peter couldn’t help it — his eyes rolled so hard he could feel the twitch in his muscles. “Yeah, I...thanks, FRIDAY, for the reminder.”

Though he appreciated the attempt, FRIDAY was no Karen. Not by a long-shot. Still, as much as he missed talking to his own personal AI, he couldn’t blame Mr. Stark for taking his suit away this weekend. Though he’d likely only put on his mask for Karen’s company, he was sure he’d end up doing something that he’d regret in the long run. He always did.

Peter stared aimlessly in front of him, eyeing the multiple gadgets laid out on the tables ahead. Mr. Stark rarely ever cleaned up his work, always leaving it behind for when he returned, which would only create piles upon piles of unfinished projects until eventually one was completed and stored away. It was, for lack of a better way of putting it, a total cluster fudge.

Of course, Peter wasn’t really in a position to judge. He was known to be a tad bit messy himself — “_Incredibly messy, Peter,” _May’s voice cut through his hypocrisy, ringing through his ears as if he heard her just yesterday. _“__F__or the love of God, __please __clean up your room.”_

That’s when his eyes caught hold of an oval-shaped, bulky device amidst the clutter.

“Hey, what’s this?” Peter was already picking it up before receiving an answer, turning it around in his hands with curiosity. It held a good deal of weight for its size, clunky, somewhat similar to a small pocket flashlight.

“**That is the core calibrator to Mr. Stark’s ultrasonic pulse. It belongs to Mark 46, equipped within the gauntlet of his armor. He has temporarily removed it for further upgrades.”**

“Ultrasonic pulse...cool.” Peter eyed the device with keen interest, examining every nook and cranny like he was studying it. “What does it do?”

“**The repulsors release a high-frequency burst of concentrated sound. Currently, the ultrasonic pulse cannot achieve a decibel rate higher than one-hundred-thirty. According to the latest project data entries, Mr. Stark is aiming for two-hundred, max.”**

“Two-hundred decibels?” Peter’s eyes went wide, the look of shock coloring over his brown pupils. “That’s insane! Why does he need something like that?”

Suddenly the device in his hands felt much less like a flashlight and much more like a grenade. A powerful, tiny, _loud _grenade.

“**At higher levels of intense decibel strengths, Mr. Stark is hoping to achieve extra-aural bioeffects on various internal organs and central nervous systems. Including auditory shifts, vibrotactile sensitivity change, muscle contraction, cardiovascular function change, vestibular effects, as well as chest wall and lung tissue disturbances. This, of course, would be used in circumstances where necessary only.” **

Peter was familiar with sound weapons — that was, the type he and Ned would create at school after band practice using Sarah Hagelin’s trumpet. While this was on a whole other level of extreme — _‘Why do you have to be so extra, Mr. Stark?’ _— the concept remained the same.

Which meant there likely had to be a volume notch.

“FRIDAY...” Peter trailed off, fiddling with the device in his hands. “Exactly how _low _can the decibel range on this thing go?”

“**The lowest setting would be fifty. Any lower would not produce a shock wave and thus, would become ineffective.”**

Peter stood from his chair, so quickly that it rolled straight out from under him. Gadget held tightly in his hands, he nodded once, sharp and curt, before saying,

“...I’m going to borrow this.”

“**Peter, it is not advisable that you**—**”**

He was already at the lab’s exit, hand waving in the air as if the AI could detect the body movements that came with his words.

“I’m just borrowing it, FRIDAY! I’ll return it, I promise!”

It was amazing how quickly _‘odd’ _became _‘normal’ _around this place. Just at a few months ago, Peter running full sprint down the hallways of the compound would have gotten him tackled by a dozen or so security guards, at best. He couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing that most barely looked in his direction, and honestly, Peter was too preoccupied to care.

* * *

There was one nice thing about the compound on the weekends — okay, a few when taking in mind the Mac and Cheese bar the cafeteria served on Saturdays.

The best thing had to be the gym, hands down. It was a complete, utter ghost town. All but deserted. A few stragglers here and there, most passing by to grab towels for the pool across the way.

Sam absolutely loved it. It was a break in his hectic week, where SHIELD trainees were typically taken off-site for more..._intense _exercises. Like being dropped off in the wilderness for three days to fend for survival. The sort of stuff that Sam came to realize was actually _tame _for the highly secretive government organization.

He grimaced at the thought while mid-pull up. Many days he found himself thankful to be on the Avengers side of SHIELD and not working directly for the agency itself. He had gratitude for things like that, and the silence that came with his afternoon. There wasn’t enough of it these days, not around the compound, not with the constant slew of different people in and out.

He pulled his body weight up over the handlebars with a loud grunt, managing to rest his chin on the metal before repeating the process over again.

Loud grunt. Pull up.

Big exhale. Drop down.

Up.

Down.

The sweat rolled down Sam’s forehead in large beads, catching in his eyebrows and dripping off his eyelashes with each strain of his face. With a strained grunt that echoed the empty gym, he struggled with his next pull-up, arms shaking so hard it affected his entire core, all while his hips and legs trembled with exertion.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down —

_BLAST!_

The impact of air hit directly against his back, like a gust of wind straight out of a tornado.

“What the —!”

It threw him forward and onto his knees, the gym mats saving him from what otherwise would have been a loud _ CRACK _of his bones. And thank God for it, too, because his knees were already shot to hell from his time served in the force.

Sam gathered his bearings, rolling onto his backside with a loud, frustrated, “What the _ hell _was that!?”

That’s when he saw it — the little spider-twerp standing over him, hand outstretched with a mouth opened wide enough Sam had to assume he was laughing. That’s what the kid looked to be doing, anyway. He couldn’t hear a damn thing, not as his ears rang church bells directly into his skull.

Sam glared. He glared as he latched onto Peter’s hand, glared as he took the assistance back onto his feet. The hard glare never lessened, especially as Peter continued to laugh.

Slowly but surely, word by word, his voice faded in, and the ringing faded out.

“...totally makes up for last weekend when you put super glue all over my bedroom doorknob,” Peter was saying, trying — and failing, to stifle his laughter.

Sam gaped, immediately letting go of Peter’s hand once finding balance on his feet. “What are you talking about? That was harmless!”

He was yelling. He could tell he was yelling, yet he wasn’t sure if it was partially out of hearing loss or partially out of anger. Or both.

Peter cocked his head to the side, unamused. “You tried to make everyone believe my hands were _‘just that sticky’, _Sam.”

Sam laughed. He couldn’t help it; the damn memory was too good not to laugh at. Not to mention, he had managed to get Natasha to play along and Bruce, bless the man, took it seriously and began examining Peter and — yeah, okay, it went a little far but _that_, that was harmless.

“Yeah? At least you walked away with your hearing!” He wiggled a finger around in his ear, trying desperately to get the ringing to come to a complete stop. “I can barely hear my own thoughts, man!”

Walking backward out of the gm, Peter waved around the device he had in his hand, cylinder and small yet could clear pack a punch.

“We’re even!” He called out, picking up speed until he was through the double doors and out of sight.

Sam clapped his hands against his shorts, dusting himself off, huffing out a sigh at Peter’s retreating form all while shaking his head.

“We’re so not even.”

* * *

For a day that started off rather cruddy, Peter was feeling pretty good about things now. He now had an extra eighty-six web cartridges to take home with him tomorrow _and _he got back at Sam for a prank that no one wanted to let him live down.

‘_Seriously, Doctor Banner,’ _Peter thought to himself, absentmindedly tossing the sonic pulse calibrator between both hands. _‘I’m not that sticky. I don’t ever get that sticky. Please stop testing how sticky I get!’_

To say the least, getting so close with some of his idols on a personal level was a bit...strange. Peter used to admire Bruce Banner from afar, studying his work like he studied Einstein’s and Darwin’s. Now he saw the man on a weekly basis, and got to know about the more _uncommon _quirks that school didn’t teach him about. Like how fixated Doctor Banner could get on some things, Peter’s power’s included.

“Would you imagine my reaction when,” the voice startled Peter right out of his thoughts, “in the middle of tasting Amedei’s Prendimé delectable wedding cake with my ever-loving and incredibly patient fiance, I receive an alert from my AI. One informing me that a remotely secured mechanism of mine had been removed from its contained location.”

Peter knew that voice. He didn’t need to turn around to know who that voice belonged to. Device still in hand, albeit no longer moving, Peter managed an intelligent, thoughtful, engaging response of,

“Uh...”

Tony turned the corner, standing in front of the couch with his wired-rimmed glasses dropping down to the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even bother to push them up, arms crossed over his chest, looking as stern as ever. The three-piece, crisp, wrinkle-free suit only added to the threatening vibe he gave off.

Peter gulped.

Tony eyed him from over his purple-tinted frames. “You _do _remember the last time something similar happened, no?”

Peter bit his tongue, hard, because _‘Yeah, how could I forget,’ _and instead replied, “I was just borrowing it, I swear.”

Tony’s glare was intense enough to see straight through his glasses. Suddenly, Peter had a feeling his day wasn’t going to be ending as great as he thought it would. In fact, based on the cramp forming in his gut, he wouldn’t be afraid to go out on a limb and guess it was about to get much, much worse.

“You didn’t leave your thing with Miss. Potts because of me, did you?” he decided on asking, desperate to change the topic.

Tony almost chuckled.

“No. She’d have my head if I did that.” The way he uncrossed his arms and shifted weight to his other foot told Peter that Mr. Stark was relaxing, though the heat of frustrations remained. “I _did, _however, have FRIDAY track your whereabouts for the remainder of the day. Seeing as _you _were the one who took the core calibrator to the sonic pulse annex — which if I haven’t mentioned is a dangerous weapon you shouldn’t be playing around with, then let me note now that it’s a _dangerous weapon you shouldn’t be playing around with_.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Pranks? Really?” Tony had his head tilted to the side in a way that told Peter no excuse he managed to conjure up would save him. Best to admit defeat now while he was ahead.

Peter adjusted himself on the sofa, suddenly realizing he was still holding the device and feeling insanely guilty for it.

“Okay, yes, but Sam _totally _deserved it after the doorknob thing he pulled on me and you know it and I even think you agree with me on this and in all technicality I didn’t start this war, I only ended it and —”

“Is he hurt?” Tony was quick to interrupt, not out of concern but sheer desperation to have Peter take a damn breath of air.

There was a beat.

“No,” Peter answered, his face scrunched up in a way that said _‘__as if’ _and _‘no way’ _at the same time.

“Then yes, he deserved it.” Tony outstretched his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Now hand it back over.”

Peter sighed, reluctant at first to return the device. He had been going back and forth with the idea of grabbing the blueprint copies of Mr. Stark’s design and putting them into a web grenade of sorts, but alas, he never expected the man to return home so soon. He supposed he had a part in that.

“Fine.” Peter _plopped _the cylinder-shaped core into Mr. Stark’s open palm. “A heads up...I lowered the decibels back down to a _sane _level. Are you really trying to make that thing go over two hundred?”

“You bet your ass I am.” Tony tossed the device up in the air and caught it seamlessly, so smooth it looked like he put no effort into it at all.

Peter curled his legs underneath him on the sofa. “That’s _insane, _Mr. Stark. That’s louder than like, race cars or gunshots. That’s the equivalent of a space shuttle taking off! Why do you need something that loud?”

Tony slipped off his glasses with one hand and stuffed the device into his pant pockets with the other.

“Kid, as simplistic as it sounds, you never know when you’ll need something really loud,” he casually explained. “After all, the good ‘ol God of Thunder isn’t around these days to drum on Cap’s shield. Gotta make do with what we have.”

His off-handed comment seemed to trigger a response in Peter, so palpable that it could be felt across the room.

“That...makes total sense,” he murmured, distantly untangling his legs from beneath him as if he weren’t even in control of his own body. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Stark. Make do with what I have.”

Before Tony could even take a guess at what was happening, Peter was stumbling off the couch and heading towards the doorway. Still, he had gotten to know Peter well over the past two years, especially in just the last handful of months. He could smell trouble before it began brewing.

“Hey!” Tony called out, stopping Peter right in his tracks. “I don’t know what light just turned on in that big noggin of yours, but if it’s more pranks, you need to pull the kill switch on it now.”

It was frighteningly impressive how Tony was able to hold back his groan. Was this his life now? Telling teenage superheroes not to pull pranks on other superheroes?

“Oh, c’mon, Mr. Stark!” Peter whined, so loud and obnoxiously that Tony ended up letting out that groan of frustration. “I was just going to take my web fluid and —”

“Seriously, Peter,” Tony stressed, rubbing at his forehead to ward off an oncoming migraine. “Our new..._guest _is moving in today.”

It was the magic word that had Peter’s demeanor completely change. His shoulders dropped, his eyes went wide, and even his breathing stopped for a short moment. They had talked about this; Tony had given him _plenty _of heads up. After all, with Peter staying at the compound on the weekends, he deserved to know.

The thing was, the move-in date had never been set in stone. It must have happened recently, and by the way Mr. Stark looked, Peter wasn’t sure if much time had been given to prepare.

“Really?” Peter asked, his voice hushed under his breath. “He is?”

“Yes.” Tony slipped his glasses back on, bringing with it the demeanor of assurance and poise. “And if you want to keep all ten of your fingers, you’re best not pulling adolescent pranks on him. Capisce?”

Peter nodded, his look so serious that Tony was sure he could hand the kid the Declaration of Independence, tell him to return it to D.C right away, and his expression would be the absolute same. Not even a flicker of a difference.

All and all, it was for the best. Tony needed him to understand just how significant this was, that this person, this _guest _moving in — he wasn’t one to joke around with.

* * *

His suitcase, made of goatskin and twine, barely took up a corner of his bed. It contained little; a few articles of clothing, a hand-crafted book some local children wrote for him — and about him, nonetheless — and...well, _it. _

He stared at it. It stared right back, bright and shiny, silver, bulky. Nothing in this world made him feel as much despair as when he’d look at this _ thing, _this part of him. Hate wasn’t a strong enough word. He damn well nearly begged to leave it behind in his travels, but they wouldn’t let him.

He scoffed, throwing his scarf over the offending sight as he continued to unpack. They’d be bringing him new belongings soon. New clothes to go with his new living arrangements. But why they hadn’t finished providing him a replacement for _ that _yet...it was beyond him.

“_Patience, my friend,” _ he had been told by a king who wore no crown, a man whose humility rivaled only Steve Rogers himself. _ “However long the night, the dawn will break.” _

“Hey,” the voice came from behind him, protruding from the doorway. He didn’t look. He heard the footsteps approaching a full minute ago. “I need your help.”

He pulled a worn pair of pants from his bag, tossing it aside on the bed that looked too soft for his liking. “That’s a first.”

There was sigh, audible from across the room. He couldn’t lie, it made his lips twitch in what could have been a smile.

“Yeah, well...” Sam ran a hand down his face, words murmured beneath his palm before he said, “desperate times, desperate measures.”

He turned around, slightly concerned, mostly apathetic. The idea of an another fight he needed to be involved in wasn’t new to him. It was becoming his new ordinary.

“What do you need?”

Sam leaned against the frame of the doorway, the hallway light the only thing illuminating his figure. “Could use an extra hand pranking that bratty teenager we dealt with in Berlin.”

Bucky shrugged, the twitch on his lips a little stronger this time. “Yeah, why not.”

* * *

“Beginning clinical trial 10.F—G in three...two...one...”

The liquid dropped from its contained, secured case the moment the buzzer went off, the sound piercing and sharp. The feel of it always got to him; dense, thick, slimy, and somehow worse than all the times that came before. Like a raindrop, it hit the back of his hand with a _pluck. _

It was hot.

_It_ was always hot, burning against his skin, sizzling at the touch. He had lost count of the chemical burns that scattered along his body, scars that told stories of the many attempts he endured in the pursuit of health. Life. A chance.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. No, never in the battery of tests he subjected himself to was it ever lost on him. He was destroying his body in the attempt to heal it.

It wasn’t ideal, and certainly not his first choice in the grand scheme of things. But they didn’t have time — _he_ didn’t have time. There was no animal testing or research studies that could be done before reaching him.

Not if he wanted a chance.

So he closed his eyes, tight. Tight enough to feel the muscles in his face twitch and scream and beg for the release that he wouldn’t give until he heard the word _‘success’. _He held his breath and bit his tongue through the searing pain that spread across his skin, rendering his fingers numb and his wrist rigid with immobility, all as he waited.

It always felt like an eternity. He would often think of Emily in these times. Deep, mahogany hair that countered her smile of pure sunshine, one he’d still picture every night before going to sleep, accompanied with the purest, brightest blue eyes he’d ever witnessed before. Even now, decades after becoming nothing more than a memory to him, she kept him calm. As long as he had her memory —

“Host organism Symbiote cytoplasm results produce...another failure for organisms protoplasmic material in binding with subject.” The voice, albeit calm, professional and tame, was nails on a chalkboard to his ears. “The changes formulated to the cell structure from clinical trials 9.E—G appear to be unsuccessful.”

His eyes stayed closed, though the pressure on his eyelids lessened greatly. He could feel the burning begin to fade on his hand, the tell-tale sign that the liquid had dropped off, running down and off his skin like water in the shower. It would fall into a drain placed beneath his feet, where the earth-shattering disappointment made it feel like his legs had wavered despite the ground staying still.

His heart beat heavily, and he fought to control the emotion, taking in three deep breaths to remain composed. Each lifted his chest high, pulled his shoulders back taunt. He kept those blue eyes in his mind, fighting to remember exactly what shade they were. Always close to sky blue, but never quite so pale. Vivid, like ice.

“How would you like to proceed, Mr. Osborn?”

And with that, he opened his eyes to the world around him, no longer able to stay in the memory of a better time and place, a memory of warmth and content. His environment was sterile and cold, a lot like the expression he wore on his face. Because if twenty-eight years of owning and running his own business had taught him anything, it was never to show weakness.

“You are..._highly credentialed_, Doctor Frye.” Norman grabbed the towel offered to him by one of the many scientists standing nearby, slowly but confidently wiping his hands with it. “I have the upmost faith that you will figure it out.”

The towel was damp, saturated with a cooling gel to ease the burns that blistered on his skin. He smeared it generously across the back of his hand, stepping down cautiously from the platform where he stood. The other techs began to scatter, leaving all but one white-coated doctor standing amidst the departing crowd.

“Sir, with all due respect,” Doctor Frye started, “I have been surveying the progress on this project since day one. And since we’ve discovered that this Symbiote bio-structure won’t bond without the DNA markers of its original conception, you continue to try and change the cell nucleus of the genetic make-up with no success.”

Norman approached him with long strides, confident steps that spoke more than his words ever could. He cocked an eyebrow high in the air and discarded the towel to the side.

Doctor Frye held his tablet firmly in his grip as he continued, “This is the tenth failure, and the tenth time my team has played God to the membrane of an organism that cannot thrive without the mutation markers of its birth host.”

“And as we are both aware,” Norman was quick to respond, his tone smooth yet firm, “the birth host perished two years ago with an autopsy report that showed no remaining embryo fluid in the sack. Is that a fact you fail to recall or do you simply prefer that I remind you of the cause behind our perennial struggles?”

There was something unique in Doctor Frye that Norman respected. For starters, the man was never afraid to stand up to him, talk science with him, throw equations back and forth. He had intense grit, a dedication to his craft, dare he say an unhealthy need to be present at the job at all times. It played greatly in his favor, the unfortunate passing of Frye’s wife, leading him to divulge all his time into his work. It kept the good doctor focusing on the cure Norman so desperately needed.

“That spider was our last chance at finding success with this project, Mr. Osborn,” he reminded, his voice going so far as to pitch with unnerve. “Without injecting the mutated cells directly into your bloodstream, there’s no way this Symbiote bio-suit will bind to your genetic DNA. It requires the mutated markers of that radioactive spider.”

As the doctor spoke, Norman began to roll down the sleeves to his white button-down, taking care in buttoning the cuffs back together on each arm. He never once looked down during the task, keeping his eyes focused intently on Frye, frowning a bit as he digested what was said.

“Your vacillation is disconcerting to hear, doctor. It seems you’ve forgotten that sitting beneath my entrepreneur credentials lays a scientific genius with doctoral degrees in chemistry and electrical engineering. So when I say this can be done, I say it with more than just words,” Norman’s words were even, clinical, nearly emotionless. “I say it with the knowledge and ingenuity to substantiate the matter.”

Aggravated, Doctor Frye shook his head with animated exaggeration, spinning around as Norman began to walk past him.

“You aren’t listening. You don’t — !”

Norman calmly turned to face him, so close that it physically startled the doctor, his muscles so tense it showed in his lips.

“This Symbiote is a living organism. And like all living organisms, you can work with its biology,” Norman insisted, his tensely knitted eyebrows the closest thing he had shown to frustration so far. “I would advise that you not allow any defeats to keep you from pushing forward onward to success.”

Deliberate to linger on a hard stare that created a sheen of sweat across Doctor Frye’s forehead, Norman gave a curt nod when the time felt right. Only then did he walk passed the man, careful to avoid bumping shoulders.

He made it to the door before a voice was heard again. It wasn’t unexpected. Norman would have paused there in anticipation regardless of what sound came his way; the doctor had grit, after all.

“You have to give me clarification here, Mr. Osborn. Why can’t you lend my team the formula for the OZ Experiment Arachnid No. 00? We’ll create it from scratch; we’ll give the Symbiote the DNA markers it requires to bind and latch onto its subject matter,” he paused for a beat, his throat constricting as he stressed, “_You, _sir.”

There was enough hesitation from Norman to make it seem like he had been pondering up a response. In reality, he had one ready to go long before the man had ever asked the question. It was a sore subject. It had become the bane of his existence. The loss of all his files, the OZ formula, the records of the arachnid experiment from years ago that could easily save his life — gone. And why?

“Because, Doctor Frye,” Norman said, swiping his badge to gain access out of the laboratory, “those records were recently lost in a very unfortunate...water-logging incident. Now carry on. I expect progress by the morning.”

The heavy weight of the door closed loudly behind him, an echo that shot through the air. Norman was walking down the halls before it had even slammed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smell that?
> 
> Smells like....foreshadowing.
> 
> (¬‿¬)


	4. Honey Bunches of Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tony,” Steve persisted. “He’s better now, they’ve helped him, he—”
> 
> “Doesn’t belong here.”
> 
> Steve opened his mouth to argue, only to stay silent. The retaliation visibly caught him off-guard, his jaw hanging loose, his shoulders slumping like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
> 
> Long after Tony had said the words and the sting remained in the air, sharp and painful like a laceration across his skin.
> 
> When he finally found his voice, it was much quieter, more reserved.
> 
> “I thought you...” Steve shook his head, confused. “After what you said...I thought you were okay with him.”
> 
> The memories of freezing cold water roaring through Tony’s ears brought alongside the sound of his own voice, broken and pleading for forgiveness at the anticipation of death. His breaths deepened as his anger lessened, his resentment replaced with disappointment — disappointment in Rogers, disappointment in himself.
> 
> “So did I,” Tony admitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell WAY off my updating schedule, ya'll. I am tremendously sorry. You guys are so, so, so very kind with all your wonderful feedback and you deserve much better than me! 😆 I promise, though, that there's _so_ much to come and if you stick with me, there will be a payoff like you'd never believe!
> 
> Reminder that in this story universe, Civil War never ended with a fight. Bucky's Winter Solider arm is _still_ in tact, although chapter 3 goes on to detail how it remains removable as he awaits for a new, different arm,
> 
> Nothing more to say; I'll let this chapter do all the talking!

Some duct tape, the arm of the martial arts dummy from down in the gym, and a _lot _of aluminum foil later — Sam and Bucky were ready.

“It looks like crap,” Bucky remarked, eyeing the poorly-constructed prop hanging from his shoulder. It dangled like a wet noodle, although even _that _would be giving the hasty craft more credit than it deserved.

“The kid won’t even notice,” Sam insisted, looping the roll of duct tape around Bucky’s shoulder and back towards him again. “Trust me. This is going to work.”

Bucky gave a one-shouldered shrug. He really couldn’t care less one way or the other. Anything to keep him from being forced to review SHIELD mission reports and train the cadets, of which he had learned the hard way were the most pansy-like, technology-obsessed, closed-minded bunch he had ever seen before. It had been an eye-opener to see first-hand how drastically men had changed since his time.

He wouldn’t lie; staying on the goat farm in Wakanda sounded way more appealing than spending more than two minutes with those cadets.

Sticky tape put pressure against the nub of his arm with a tightness that felt _too _tight. Bucky looked up at Sam, mildly irritated with an expression that somehow remained apathetic.

“So what am I supposed to do? Just wait around here all day, or —”

“No, I texted him,” Sam answered, ripping off the final piece of duct tape and securing it in place. “He’s coming up from the lab now.”

With wary eyes, Bucky examined the final product. By now it looked like total shit, but he wasn’t going to say a word. Not at the risk of instigating Sam to put more time and craftsmanship into the prank. Fun or not, it wasn’t worth exerting _that_ much effort into it.

Sam, though? Sam seemed as if he could go all day messing with this kid — the kid who was long since owed a good chunk of payback for Germany, because _of course _Stark was housing teenage superheroes in this godforsaken place.

Nothing surprised him anymore. Not even,

“Texting...right. Cell phones. Those exist.”

Sam gave a sympathetic hum while looking over his work. Dare he say, _admiring _it. “Yeah...must be weird. You know —jumping back into a society that’s advanced so much.”

“It’s been...something.” Bucky rolled his shoulder, testing out the crudely designed homemade device. It hung limply at his side and barely lifted when he went to mimic a shake. He had a hard time believing Wilson when he said the punk would buy this. Cause either this kid was incredibly stupid or insanely trustworthy.

And if it was the latter, that made him both in Bucky’s eyes.

A holler from the hallway of the recreational room caught his attention.

“Hey, Sam? You wanted something? I was just about to see a movie, what’s up —” Peter came to a sudden halt the moment he crossed into the doorway, feet freezing in place at the sight ahead of him. Or more accurately, the person.

“Oh.”

Sam immediately stepped in front of Bucky before Peter could stare too hard — and staring he was, eyes locked intently on Bucky like a deer caught in the headlights. It reminded Sam a lot of the first time he officially met the twerp, having removed his vigilante superhero mask in one of Tony’s workshops like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.

Sam couldn’t resist the smirk that crept along his lips. Call it a brotherly kinship; messing with this kid was just _too easy. _

“Hey, webhead! I’ve been getting everyone acquainted with our new housemate here. Tony gave you the DL on that, right?”

It took a moment for Peter to register what Sam had said — a moment longer after that to try and understand Sam’s lingo — before he finally managed to snap out of his confused trance.

“DL? Huh?” He shook off the momentary shock and stepped forward. “Yeah-yeah, Mr. Stark told me...that we’d be...he’d be...um...yeah...”

Peter couldn’t stop staring. He could tell he was staring, and could tell that Sam noticed he was staring — and was desperately trying not to laugh at him for it. Still, it wasn’t until a good beat later that Peter cleared himself out of the awe-struck moment.

“Hi. I’m Peter.” With stiff, overly polite movements, he jogged further into the rec room, his one arm extended outward like a rigid vaulting pole. “Peter Parker.”

Sam re-positioned himself to stand behind Bucky, who hadn’t even twitched a muscle on his face, let alone tried to seem remotely interested in anything regarding the situation. It was a good thing that Peter was oblivious to it all, poorly-crafted foiled arm included. The same exact arm he invited in for a handshake.

So when he went to grasp Bucky’s hand at the same moment Sam deliberately _‘bumped’ _into Bucky’s side, he was damn near traumatized when the limb detached straight from the soldier’s arm socket.

Peter’s jaw fell straight to the floor — figuratively.

Bucky’s arm dangled in his grasp — literately.

“Uh...” Peter’s eyes darted back and forth, from Bucky’s arm back to Bucky, back to the arm, back to Bucky. All while his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I, uh...”

Bucky quirked an eyebrow high into his hairline.

“Holy cow.” Peter finally managed to squeak out, immediately extending the arm back to Bucky as if it were any other casual item he may have taken. “Oh _my god. _I am _so _sorry! Oh my god, Mr. Bucky, sir, I must have...I didn’t mean to...holy _shit, _I am so sorry! I didn’t mean —”

Sam’s sharp, gut-aching laughter was the only thing that finally tore through Peter’s panicked and borderline terrified rambling. It came so abruptly, breaking free with a howl so loud that it finally had Bucky giving way to an expression. Annoyance.

“Damn, kid!” Sam hollered, bent over, clutching his stomach.

Peter could feel his heart shaking in his rib-cage. It didn’t matter if that were physically possible or not; he could _feel _it. His hand let go of the foil-covered arm, letting it drop to the ground — where no one went to pick it up, because of course they wouldn’t, because _it was__n__’t real _— and his fingers twisted into his hair from a stress he never thought he’d experience before.

That was, the stress of thinking he had just _dismembered _someone.

“Oh man, you should see your face!” Sam slapped his hands across his knees. “You were scared shitle —!”

“For the record, if I’d made that arm, it wouldn’t have fallen off.”

All three heads simultaneously looked over to the entrance of the room, so quickly that Peter could hear the joints in Sam’s neck crack, aging bones loud enough to hear under his enhanced eardrums.

“Hey, Wilson,” Tony had his arms crossed, leaning in the doorway with a face a bit harder than his light tone would imply. “You know, next time you wanna pull a prank like that, I suggest a quick-release weld. That way you don't have to use up all of my duct tape.”

Though Sam didn’t seem the least bit bothered by Tony’s sudden and rather uptight appearance, and Bucky remained characteristically distant to the entire situation as a whole, it was Peter could feel the goosebumps spread along his skin. He wasn’t sure why, aside from the fact that Mr. Stark appeared to be far from amused, borderline furious even.

The longer Peter stared, the more he saw a surge of boiling animosity flickering across Mr. Stark’s eyes. It sent a chill through him. He had never seen the man look quite so...hostile before.

“Tony, hey, what’s up,” Sam greeted, nodding his way. “We were just —”

“Corrupting the youth of America, I’m sure.” Tony walked into the room with an unmatched pose; shoulders pulled back sharp, chin held up high. Despite directing his words towards Sam, his eyes never wavered past the other man in the room.

And it was noticeable. His grimace paired neatly with his glare, seen through the purple-tinted glasses covering his face.

Peter looked between them both, afraid to speak, yet knowing it was best he didn’t utter a single word.

“Nah, man, it’s not like that. We were just...” Sam trailed off, noticing the same thing Peter had before him. He looked between Bucky and Tony with growing concern. “...having...some fun…”

Tony had now gotten close enough to Bucky that Sam almost wanted to pull the two apart.

Almost.

“I should go,” he ended up saying instead, quick on his feet to head out the door.

“You should,” Tony responded without missing a beat. His head twitched towards the floor below them but otherwise stayed locked ahead, eyes firmly glued on Barnes. “And take your fifth-grade home-ec class project with you.”

Sam rolled his eyes, keeping any comeback to himself as he bent down to grab the discarded arm from the floor. He turned to leave, though not before Peter could catch up with him.

“Hey, wait up, Sam! Let me see that.” Peter met him at the doorway, reaching out for the foil-covered arm with an enthusiasm that radiated straight from his smile. “Holy crap, is that the arm from _Bob _the grappling dummy in the gym? That’s so clever!”

Sam found himself laughing as Peter looked over the fake arm with wide eyes, full of light and curiosity.

“You should have seen your face, pipsqueak.”

“I thought it was really his arm!” Peter defended, his voice cracking in pitch.

Sam patted him on the shoulder. “Oh trust me, we could tell. You —”

“Peter.”

Tony’s voice cut through their banter, heard across the room, containing such hot intensity it warmed the draft air around them.

Peter craned his neck around, eyebrows furrowing with a mix of concern and irritation. If he didn’t know better, Mr. Stark was staring at him the same way he had the afternoon of the Ferry incident, eyes sharp enough to put daggers to shame.

That wasn’t right, that _couldn’t _be right. They had gotten so far past that time, now a mere blip in what was the beginning of things for them. This Mr. Stark — this angry, fuming Mr. Stark — this wasn’t directed at him. It couldn’t be.

“We good, man?” Sam’s question broke through his runaway thoughts. Peter looked over, noticing the extended fist Sam was offering his way.

“Yeah, we good,” he answered, a laugh in his voice as he bumped his own fist into Sam’s. It wasn’t long after that he left, taking the dummy’s arm with him.

Peter fought off the urge to follow him out of the room, wondering if Mr. Stark would even realize that he’d slipped out. If he had to take a guess, he would say that his presence wasn’t very much noticed right about now.

Mr. Bucky’s, though? Well, that was a whole other story.

Peter made small baby steps as he approached the two adults.

Tony stared at Bucky for a hard moment, doing everything short of scowling. A moment of grim silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional sound of Peter’s sneaker scuffing against the marble floors below them.

“You can leave as well,” Tony coldly stated.

Bucky shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere to be —”

The tension in the room finally snapped as Tony ripped off his glasses, and — _‘__yep’ _Peter noted, the eyes of fury he once endured near Staten Island had made its return. He felt slightly selfish for the gratitude that the look hadn’t been directed towards him this time.

And all things considered, Mr. Bucky seemed to be handling it a lot better than Peter had in the past. In fact, the man seemed unconcerned the moment realization hit him — he wasn’t wanted here.

“Mhm,” Bucky acknowledged distantly. “Got it.”

He left the room without another word, a second glance, or even an acknowledgment of Peter on his way out. Bucky left like he had never even been there to begin with.

Long after he was gone, Peter couldn’t help but continue to stare at the empty doorway. For someone that made Mr. Stark so angry, Bucky hadn’t made much of a remarkable impression on Peter. He was quiet, kept to himself, and aside from the weird clothes that made him look like a middle eastern farmer, there wasn’t anything particular about him that stood out.

Peter knew, though, that there was more to his story than that. Mr. Stark had told him..._things. _Things they never talked about again, things that clearly still affected him to this day. Mr. Stark had once said that he was learning to move on past the whole incident, for the team’s sake, for his _own _sake.

Looking at him now, Peter wasn’t too sure how true that remained.

“What’s up, Mr. Stark?” he asked, the stretch of quiescence making his voice sound foreign to his own ears.

Tony sniffed, hard, and folded his arms across his chest. “You need to stay away from that guy.”

“Who?” Peter did a double take at the doorway. “Mr. Bucky?”

“Mr. _Bucky?_” Tony repeated back incredulously, the thunderous look on his face nearly as hot as his words. “Is that what Rogers told you to call him?”

Peter had a bad feeling that _all_ of Tony’s buttons had been pushed by now. He knew that not all had been pressed by him; he was just very unlucky in being the one to deal with the aftermath.

“No! I mean, maybe, I mean —” Peter shook his head free of his stutter. “What’s the big deal?”

Tony’s mouth stayed set in a thin line as he slipped his glasses back onto his face, purple-tinted lenses reflecting brightly from the skylight ceiling above him.

Peter had caught on a while ago that it was a defense mechanism, a way to hide the emotion that reflected in Mr. Stark’s eyes. Most people were aware the habit. Some challenged it, like Ms. Potts. Peter let it be, though sometimes he wondered what would happen if he ever did the same.

“He’s trouble,” Tony flatly explained. “He’s here so SHIELD can keep an eye on him, nothing more, nothing less. I don’t want you associating with him.”

“Mr. Stark, come on!” Peter tossed a hand in the air, full of exasperation. “You can’t tell me —”

“Kid,” Tony warned, his voice firmer now, with an underlying note of rigor authority. “Stay away from him.”

The warning came with narrow eyes and a twisted face; an expression Peter couldn’t read past the purple-tinted lenses, frames acting as a veil to his reality. His voice, meek whines in protest, was lost amid a whirlwind of emotions. Ninety percent of which he was sure could be categorized as pure aggravation and annoyance.

He settled on a scoff of disbelief, one he failed to keep tightly in his chest, and he didn’t bother to hide it either. Tony’s eyes shot towards him at a record-breaking speed, a way of saying _‘I heard that!’_

Peter shook his head, looking away and back towards the empty doorway. There was a part of him deep down inside that coiled resentment, frustration snowballing into something bigger despite his efforts to ignore it all weekend.

First, Mr. Stark grounded him — which, what was _ with _ that? He knew the man kinda-sorta s aw him like, well, ‘ _ like a son’ _ as he once said a few months back. But grounding? It just seemed very...un-Mr.Stark-like. And now _ this? _Telling him who he could and couldn’t hang around?

If he didn’t know better, Mr. Stark was acting like his —

“Peter!”

Tony’s voice pierced through his thoughts for what felt like the fifth time that day.

“Yeah! I heard you, okay?” Peter shifted uncomfortably on his feet, quick to cover up his outburst with, “Don’t worry. It’s a big place, right? What are the chances of me even seeing him again?”

Peter hid his frustration behind a look of false reassurance, the type he had mastered as of late. It was typically a look he’d find himself giving May before leaving for patrol on the weekend nights, where his curfew was later, and her panic strung higher.

She never did look convinced. And right now, neither did Tony.

* * *

* * *

The clock on his laptop read 6:10 pm, but his body screamed 1:30 in the afternoon. All the meanwhile, his hands twitched desperately to fiddle with a tool of some sort down in his workshop.

Alas, Tony had actual business to work on. Or at the very least _attempt _to work on before completely passing off to someone else, because his mind could not stay focused to save his own life.

For the most part, his responsibility within Stark Industries had greatly diminished since handing the reigns over to the wonderful Pepper Potts, now his fiance and long-awaited-to-be-wife — a wedding that they’d postponed more times than he could count at this point. But remaining a chairman to the company still required the occasional paperwork to fill out.

Okay, it required a _ lot _ of paperwork to fill out, most of which Pepper managed to handle for him. It just so happened she was out of the country for another week, dealing with the overseas management and requiring him to step up his game for once. Considering his recent month-long vacation — if he could call spending over eight hours a day in a car with a smelly teenager a _ ‘vacation’ _— Tony wasn’t complaining. Too much.

Until, that is,

“Tony,” a familiar voice greeted him from the doorway of the lounge room. “Glad I bumped into you. Got a minute?”

Tony looked down at his laptop, the clock in the corner now reading 6:05 pm. He barely managed to bite his tongue, wondering just how long a minute could stretch on for in the presence of — he craned his neck behind him, catching sight of Steve standing in the doorway — _‘__yep,’ _he thought, _‘the one and only Star-Spangled-Asshole.’_

“If you need more wax polish for that glorified dinner plate of yours, go through Pepper. She handles the finances.” Tony turned back to his laptop, resuming the data-sheet he had been semi-occupied with. “Or at least, she handles the people who handle the finances. Possibly the people _of _the people who handle the finances.” His fingers paused on the keyboard below, hovering in the air as a thought suddenly struck him. “It’s a big company. Lotta work. She needs to give herself a raise. Hey, she can ask for one when she talks to the people who handle —”

“Tony.” Steve had walked into the room by now, hands on his hips in a way that said he was unimpressed.

Tony fought the urge to toss his laptop straight at him. The gift-to-mankind would probably just catch it like his damn Frisbee anyhow. The room quickly became stuffy with tension, the feeling of tightness building right beneath his diaphragm in a way that screamed _‘Stress! Panic! Do not want, must leave, must leave!’ _

It took Tony every muscle in his body to resist the urge. He focused instead on the screen to his laptop, the numbers in his excel sheet starting to blur together.

Steve shifted slightly on his feet. “He’s unpacked. He’s here to stay. Can we please just..._talk _about this now?”

Despite the obvious tension in the man’s tone, pinched high with strain containing built-up emotion, Tony didn’t appear conflicted. He let the stretch of silence take on the false impression of internal debate, one he had yet to let himself deliberate.

“Mhmm...” Tony hummed aloud before curtly answering, “No.”

Steve’s exasperation broke with a sigh.

“It’s been months. You’ve been avoiding me — you’ve been avoiding this. A part of me...” Steve trailed off, his chin resting low to his chest with his eyes glued to the ground. “A part of me wonders if that’s why you took Peter and went on that road trip.”

Tony looked up from his laptop with a single raised eyebrow. A solid beat passed before he managed, “Well, that’s not egocentric at all.”

“You know what I mean,” Steve amended. His hands were stuffed deep in his khaki pockets, making it look as if his square shoulders were slumping inward. “The other night was the most we’ve even interacted with each other since Peter’s birthday party. And that was just to punish the kids!”

Tony rolled his eyes. “But honey, one of us has to be the stern parent. If we don’t both put our foot down —”

“Knock it off with the jokes.”

“Not going to happen if you keep making us sound like an old married couple.”

Steve leveled an emphatic look his way. “I know why you’re upset.”

“You don’t—!” Tony shoved his laptop to the side, his teeth biting hard enough on his tongue that he could feel the indentation marks it left behind. He forced himself to take a deep breath before speaking again. “You don’t know why I’m upset.”

Despite Tony’s increasing temper, the anger sizzling off his skin like animated electricity, Steve remained where he stood, cool and collected.

“I get it. I do. I kept a secret from you, I kept...many secrets from you.” Steve’s sigh felt like nails on a chalkboard to Tony. “And I shouldn’t have. I should have told you right away, about it all, even the deal with Fury and having Bucky move in. But the last time we resented each other, we nearly tore the team apart and —”

“I don’t resent you,” Tony admitted somberly.

Steve’s look of doubt was enough to have Tony’s stomach rolling. It meant one thing — this conversation was happening, and he really, _ really _didn’t want it to be happening.

Damn it.

“Scout’s honor, I don’t.” Tony stood from the sofa, clearing his throat more than necessary to force out the rest. His reluctance didn’t go unnoticed. “You know I’ve...I’ve discovered the hard way that resentment is corrosive. And what you did, what you kept from me...I’m not okay with it. I probably never will be. But I can live with it.”

Steve listened intently, focused, hanging on Tony’s every word. It was typical; any conversation involving Barnes had them both on edge.

“Barnes? He’s the one that killed my parents. Him. Not you, not HYDRA. Him.”

“That wasn’t Bucky,” Steve wryly insisted.

“I saw the footage,” Tony’s tone was clipped, sharp, and his usually relaxed exterior was constrained, agitated. “One-hundred-percent the man now living under this roof.”

“That —” Steve chewed on his lip, swallowing down the force of his words and trying again. “That wasn’t Bucky. He was under the influence of something...something much more powerful than him, than what he could control.”

“You can say that until the twelfth of never. But I can’t believe it. Influence doesn’t excuse the horrendous actions of a man. And it was his hands that did the deed, and you _know _that.” Tony’s eyes momentarily reflected the venom that laced his words. He held that look with Steve for a strong moment, time suspended until he broke away, feet heading straight for the exit, without any detours.

Steve’s voice followed him out, hitting right in earshot before he could reach the doorway. “It was the Winter Solider that killed your parents, Tony. Not him.”

Tony wasn’t in the mood for arguments, for fights, for vengeance. Those emotions had long since washed away in a sinking bunker that now laid buried beneath the ocean. He had finally reached a point in his life where he just wanted to let things _be, _to not harp on the past, not let it eat him alive.

It was hard, sure. But as he walked out of the lounge room, he remembered what a wise kid had told him just earlier that day. This was a big place. What were the odds of bumping into one person?

* * *

The compound was much more...different at night.

Peter wasn’t exactly sure why there was such a change come sundown. At first, he tried pinning it on the empty hallways. There was such a lack of security, SHIELD employees, and activity that typically diminished after dinner time. But while it was definitely quieter, he couldn’t say for sure what else it was that contributed to the difference in atmosphere.

No, Peter had yet to pin down what made things feel so odd at night. All and all, things just felt more...empty. Not that the facility felt much like home to begin with. It was fantastic staying over for the weekends, really, it was. But there was no denying that the compound had an impersonal feel to it. It wasn’t home.

Home or not though, it had food. And with a stomach growling loud enough to hear miles away, Peter trudged into the kitchen, dragging his sock-clad feet against the marble floors.

With a halfhearted yawn and a yank up at his flannel pajama pants, he turned a corner just as the dim lights to the kitchen faded on. Most of the lights in the facility were automatic, sensitive to the presence of others to conserve energy. So Peter didn’t think much of it when the kitchen went from completely pitch-dark to dimly lit.

Not until he saw the figure that had been sitting in the dark, seated on a barstool at the kitchen island with his head bowed low.

“Mr. Bucky?” Peter squeaked out, his fists rubbing at one eye. “Were you just...sitting here in the dark?”

Bucky looked up, hair mostly covering his eyes, beer bottle hiding half his face. His only response was no response at all, although the sound of his teeth grinding together could be heard from where Peter stood.

“Okay...” Bleary-eyed, Peter pointed to the cabinets nearby. “I’m just going to….yeah.”

The further Peter walked into the kitchen, the more lights that turned on, the small under-the-cabinet type that illuminated the counter space and nothing more. With another yawn, he reached for the top shelf and brought down a box of cereal, one of many that he kept up there.

Well, the many that Clint kept up there. He had the archer to thank for his sugary midnight snacking eating habits. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he had ever even asked Clint to stock up on the cereal. But that was Clint; the guy just knew how to make the team happy, no words needed. Natasha’s unsalted almonds were always in the cupboards, right alongside Bruce’s chamomile tea, Sam’s Eggo’s, Rhodey’s craft beer, and the loaf of bread that Steve never really ate, but rather stayed in the cabinet for his peace of mind.

Peter rummaged around for a bowl, craning his head behind him as he asked, “Lucky Charms?”

With his back facing him, Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his beer bottle to his mouth, took a chug, and set it back down on the island. The glass made a _clang _as it touched the granite counter.

Peter waited an extra second for an answer. When he didn’t get one, he brought out a second bowl and dug around for a second spoon. “They’re good. Magically delicious.”

Peter could see Bucky’s head twitch just a smidgen as he poured an obscene amount of cereal into one bowl, a small amount into the next. A few marshmallows fell to the floor, and he swept them aside with his foot, making note to clean up his mess after he ate.

It was on his way to the fridge that he finally heard a voice break through the stale air.

“Shouldn’t be hanging around me, small fry. You know your pops really snapped his cap about that today.”

Peter froze mid-grab to the milk jug in the fridge. He looked behind him, eyebrows furrowed with confusion so intense he wasn’t sure if he could still feel his fingers, now blindly reaching around in the fridge while he stared at Bucky’s backside.

“I have _no _idea what you just said,” Peter admitted, pulling out the jug of milk and walking back to the counter where two bowls of cereal awaited him. “Anyway, Mr. Stark isn’t my pops — or my dad, or whatever. He’s just...Mr. Stark.”

With a steady hand, Peter poured the two-percent milk into each bowl— over-flooding his bowl while dishing out a reasonable amount in the other. The few pieces that floated to the top fell over the rim, and he collected in his hands before tossing hem straight to his mouth.

Behind him, Bucky scoffed. “Wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Peter rolled his eyes, setting both bowls down on the kitchen island, deliberately pushing the one that wasn’t his in front of Bucky.

“Seriously. Mr. Stark is cool, but he’s more like...” He dragged a barstool across the floor, moving to sit directly across from the older man. “I dunno, he’s like my mentor or something. It’s just that he’s been sorta...protective lately.” Peter dug his spoon into his Lucky Charms, shoveling marshmallows and oat pieces into his mouth.

Bucky looked down at the bowl in front of him, eyebrow quirked high as he opted instead to grab the base of his beer bottle and swig a gulp.

“Why’s that?” he asked, practically grumbled under his breath.

Peter shrugged, taking in another spoonful. “I think he feels responsible for me. He’s been helping me with this...” Peter swallowed hard and gestured vaguely, “..._ super-hero _stuff for a few years now.”

Bucky hummed, the sound hoarse, rumbling like grinding stone. It almost seemed darker in contrast to Peter’s voice, even the sound of his chewing somehow lighthearted.

“And also,” Peter swallowed before speaking again, “these crazy bad-guys kidnapped me after they stole his tech and held me hostage under the sea in the Bermuda Triangle and I almost died. So there’s that.”

Bucky paused mid-swig of his beer, eyes wide enough to see through the bangs of his hair. He didn’t take a drink this time, rather he set the bottle back down on the counter and stared hard at Peter.

If Peter noticed, he didn’t point it out. The kid — ‘_ if he could be called that,’ _ Bucky mused, considering Peter was incredibly close to the age that he had been when he enlisted in the War. He shook off the thought. The _ rascal _continued to shovel food into his mouth, rarely giving himself a break to breathe.

“Huh,” Bucky mumbled. “That explains a few things.”

He’d never say it out loud, but as he eyed the scrawny looking teenager, Bucky couldn’t help but see a bit of Steve in him. For starters, Peter was eating so fast, practically at a pace that increased his risks of choking. At he very least, it kept him from actually _tasting _what he was stuffing into his mouth.

Steve had been the same way; could never slow down with his food, always hungry — nay, starving. That, of course, changed later in their life. When Steve himself changed.

But still, Bucky knew _ lanky-Steve _ way longer than he ever knew _ Captain America Steve _. He had a feeling that he’d forever see his friend that way, a small boy from Brooklyn with an attitude twice his frame. The only difference now was his attitude finally matched his body.

There was also the kindness to Peter, the type that came deep from his bones. He had set out a portion of food for Bucky, not even asking, just doing. And Bucky stared down at the bowl, floating and now soggy pieces of cereal below him. The smell was sweet and disgusting and overall completely unappetizing, but the thought blossomed a warmth in his chest that he hadn’t felt in what could easily be centuries now.

Even if it had been Steve’s only meal of the day, he’d be damn well sure to split it with Bucky. The question then became if he noticed that Bucky would slowly but surely return the food back onto his plate.

“You almost died, didn’t you?”

His whirling thoughts came to a sudden disconnect at the sound of Peter’s slightly high-pitched voice. His head shot up, his expression doing the talking for him.

Peter got the hint, going on to clarify, “In school, we’re taught about World War Two in history class. Things about...you know, the Howling Commandos and all...”

He trailed off, noticing an odd vibe coming from Bucky, one that didn’t seem too amused or welcoming or, well, _ understanding. _Bucky stared at Peter with a sense of confusion, as if he was soaking it all in.

Peter, in all his well-composed manners, continued to ramble on. “I actually wrote two essays on Captain America before I ever even met Mr. Rogers — uh, you know...Steve. I wonder if that’d be considered cheating now? Not that my teachers know that I know him. Well, they sorta know that I know him but not in the way that you know I know him and...” He took a deep breath while shoveling a spoonful of Lucky Charms in his mouth, saying between bites, “Shutting up now.”

“Right.” Bucky gave one curt nod. “History class.”

He’d love to say that it wasn’t a weird thought, but _ all _of this was a big giant pile of weird, and Bucky knew that would be a lie. Kids were studying him in school — well, of course they were. Logically, it made sense. But on a deeper level, it just didn’t settle right with him.

Bucky took another swig of his beer. Two gulps for good measure.

“Does it ever get easier?” He heard through the swallow of liquid, quiet and slightly murmured.

Peter was looking at him when he put his bottle down on the counter.

“The whole...almost dying thing?” he asked, quietly. “Does it ever get easier?”

The question gave him pause. Bucky once lied to Steve when they were fourteen, right after his mother died. _ “It’s going to get better, Stevie.” _It wasn’t something he said with ill intent; it was something everyone did and said during hard times. He didn’t think much of it, not until the years went on, and things just kept getting worse and worse, a snowball effect beyond what they ever expected or prepared for.

He still thought about that to this day. False hope, wishful thinking, a pipe dream — call it whatever, it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I’ll let you know if I ever figure it out,” Bucky ended up answering.

Peter was slurping on his milk, stopping only once hearing Bucky’s answer. He lowered the bowl to the counter with an overly enthusiastic nod.

“Cool, cool.”

Peter wiped away his milk mustache, sighing. His cereal was gone with the milk alongside it, leaving an empty bowl in front of him. He _ should _ be heading back to his personal quarters, get some shut-eye, try to at the very least . Though he didn’t need much sleep since _ The Bite, _he still tried to get as much rest as possible. Growing brain and all.

There was one slight, small, itsty-bitsy problem he had ran into. Sleep wasn’t happening. He couldn’t pin down exactly why, to be honest. What the root of the problem was. All he knew was that didn’t like being alone with his own thoughts, not anymore, not as of late. They had a tendency to wander, and it seemed he had more negative memories to focus on than positive ones.

A chill sent goosebumps up his arm. He wasn’t sure if it was from the temperature in the kitchen or the memory of —

“Which one of us do you think would win at an arm-wrestling contest?” Peter was quick to ask. A little too quick.

Bucky observed him, a blank expression written across his face.

“Like, I know you have the metal arm and all, but I’m also _super _strong,” Peter explained enthusiastically, pulling Bucky’s bowl of cereal closer to him and digging the spoon in. “And I once broke through this experimental metal, ada-metal something, so I think I’d have a chance.”

Bucky sighed in exasperation. He took one last swig of his beer, looking at the bottle with disappointment once he finished.

Peter continued to ramble, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of Lucky Charms into his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When this is all said and done, _everyone_ will be a happy family. (︶^︶)
> 
> Whether they like it or not. ಠ_ಠ


	5. Learning Curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony took a deep inhale, back ramrod straight as he said, “Looks like we have our work cut out for his, ladies and gentlemen.”
> 
> “You sure about this, Tony?” Steve took a step towards him, hesitate to get too close. “We could be starting a war here.”  
Tony turned on his heels to face him, brow creased, lips pressed in a firm line. He fixed his gaze squarely to the blue eyes reflecting back at him.
> 
> “Possibly. But whatever Norman Osborn is up to, it can’t be good. The depravity is clear as day and proof or not, we’ve come across enough evidence to know that he’s heading down a path of destruction. It’s time somebody puts a stop to his mad scientist game before more people get hurt.”
> 
> The pause that followed came with heavy contemplation. The team surrounding the two glanced between both men, awaiting a response.
> 
> Finally, Steve nodded, outstretching his hand to bridge the gap between them.
> 
> “Okay, you’re right,” he acquiesced. “We’ll follow you on this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope ya'll realize that 98% of this story is written out of my sheer love for every one of you, because you're so amazing and your feedback and comments and just participating by reading makes me want to write it all.
> 
> (The other 2% is sheer stubbornness to get this damn saga on written paper and out. of. my. flipping. head)

_BrrrrrrrRRRINNGG!_

“Alright class, that’s it for today — hold on, _hold on! _Don’t forget your homework assignments for tonight, and please, anyone that did _not _have their parent or guardians turn in their contact form need to do so by tomorrow! I’m talking to you, Mr. Eiswert!”

Peter struggled to push past the crowd of teenagers that swarmed near the classroom door, all seemingly squeezing through at once, shoulders and hips knocking into him like a wild mosh pit.

A hand rose high above everyone else, followed by a squeaky, pubescent voice of, “I’m on it, Ms. Warren!”

It was like a pack of animals galloping out of the classroom. Peter hated it. Kids were rushing off to their lockers, the roar of dismissal overtaking the announcements coming from the overhead P.A system. Everyone was in a hurry to get home – and rightfully so.

While the stampede that followed Midtown’s end-of-school bell irritated him like no other, Peter couldn’t let himself get too annoyed. They had the same type of excitement he’d have on nights he could go out patrolling, where he’d be the first kid out of the school and off the grounds before anyone could even bat an eyelash.

‘_Not tonight,’ _Peter thought miserably, dragging his feet across the floor, in no hurry whatsoever.

While May was usually pretty relaxed about when he could and couldn’t go out as Spider-man, the first day back to school was strictly off-limits. It was the same thing every year – she’d always want a breakdown of his new classes and teachers, and after an evening spent doing his homework, she’d reward him with dinner from the Thai place down the street. The family-owned one, not the one that had been bought out by some corporation who sold Som Tam that tasted like plastic.

And usually, the school work didn’t bother him. Mounds of homework weren’t something he typically dreaded; it was something he could often knock out in a couple of hours, max. Except this time –

“Dude,” Peter came face-to-face with Ned at their locker, exasperatedly tossing his backpack to the ground near his feet. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about World History. If I don’t bring up my average from last year, I’m screwed.”

Ned offered a sympathetic pat against Peter’s shoulder, watching as his friend tossed handfuls of textbooks from their shared locker into his backpack. They were shoved in like there was a black-hole in the bag that could fit just about anything.

“Too bad it’s not like, Sith Lord History or something,” Ned chuckled to himself. “You’d write a killer essay on _The Battle of Yavin_.”

Peter managed a half-smile, looking over at Ned while he zipped his backpack shut. “You know it.”

Despite them both clutching the straps to their backpacks, Peter and Ned proceeded to give each other a handshake that resulted in something else entirely. It went on for a good thirty seconds, with a few students exchanging odd glances at the two on their way out.

And then, as if nothing had happened, they began to walk down the hallways. Most of the crowd already left, leaving them as the tail end to the rush of teenagers that had made their way through the double doors leading outside.

“So, what are you gunna do?” Ned asked, matching Peter’s pace — slow, casual, slightly despondent.

Peter shrugged, opening one of the large doors ahead and keeping it open for Ned.

“I don’t know, man. I was thinking of asking if MJ would help me —”

“Watch out, losers!”

A cluster of boys pushed through them, two on skateboards that hit the concrete steps with force. While Peter just barely managed to dodge to the side, Ned was side-swept straight into the metal railings of the outside stairs.

They were gone before either could call out. The few that weren’t skating ran away, laughing down the steps, acting as if they hadn’t almost given a student a concussion.

“Rude,” Ned muttered under his breath, brushing off his jacket with a huff.

“Would that be weird?” Peter was quick to ask, ignoring the boys from the Lacrosse team that had pushed right through them. “Asking MJ. That’d be weird, wouldn’t it?” He paused as he hit the last step, only speaking up once his feet resumed pace, his head shaking to himself. “It would be weird. It would be totally weird.”

The two walked side-by-side down the campus sidewalks, at a much slower rate than most the other kids.

“Isn’t she already helping you study after Decathlon practice?” Ned asked, adjusting the strap to his backpack. “Why would it be weird?”

“Yeah,” MJ chimed in, “why would it be weird?”

Ned whirled around so quickly that he lost his footing, nearly falling straight on his backside had Peter not been there to steady him.

“Jeez-us!” His exclamation was countered by Peter’s silence, the both of them looking at MJ with eyes so wide it rivaled cartoon drawings.

“H-hey, MJ. Hey,” Peter managed to squeak out, his throat gulping a few times over. He liked to think he was getting better at the art of stealth lately, what with his spider-senses getting better day by day. Yet MJ’s ability to sneak up on him always instilled doubt in that particular skill. He looked around with confusing astonishment as to _where the hell _she even came from.

“Whaddup,” MJ greeted, tone neutral and dry, expression matching it perfectly.

Ned held an open palm against his chest, of which was heaving inwards with a great deal of exertion.

“Okay, I’m okay. My heartbeat is returning to normal. I think. Oh god, is it? Peter, check my pulse, is my resting heartbeat okay?” Ned shoved his arm out towards Peter, waving it up and down with demand and urgency. Only once Peter glared at him with eyes that could shoot daggers did he let it drop back down to his side, the unspoken hint received. “Nevermind, I’m good. Or I’m not and I’ll keel over and die. It’s whatever.”

MJ raised an eyebrow high, while somehow keeping the rest of her face expressionless. It was a feat that never failed to impress Peter — and slightly terrify him at the same time.

“So...what would be weird to ask me?”

Peter gulped again, the movement in his throat so strong that he could feel his Adam’s Apple bounce. MJ had to have noticed, because _he _noticed, and if he noticed then she noticed and the idea of her noticing had him biting at his lower lip in a useless attempt to quell his nerves. Which he promptly stopped once he realized what he was doing, not to mention the fact that he had yet to even answer her question —

“It’s uh, it’s nothing,” Peter insisted, snapping himself back into the moment. “Really. It’s just—”

“Peter’s flunking World History.”

Peter shot his head around at a rate that made even him dizzy.

“Ned!”

“What?” Ned innocently shrugged.

“I’m not _flunking _—” Peter turned back to MJ, “I’m _not _flunking World History.”

MJ remained unphased. She looked at them both, eyes darting back and forth while her backpack slipped down her shoulder. She didn’t move to adjust it, instead let it hang in the crock of her arm.

“But you’re close,” she needlessly stated.

Peter paused. He gave himself a second to think over his answer, ultimately shrugging with, “Kinda.”

“You flunk any of your classes and you’re off Decathlon.” MJ stared at him, hard. “You know that.”

Peter could feel his stomach flip-flopping beneath his chest, twisting hard like a pretzel. This was _exactly _why he didn’t want MJ to know. Not to mention, she was relying so much on him to pull the Decathlon team through to championship this year. It only added unnecessary stress onto her plate, and whatever stress he put on other people made him stress out and it was just a whole recipe of...well, stress.

Besides, he wasn’t _flunking, _per-see_._ Just very, very, very close to it.

Peter sighed. Whatever way he put it, he was still going to need to bring his average up, especially with both May _and _Mr. Stark watching him to make sure his academics stayed afloat.

“So...that means you’ll help me?” His voice was full of such pathetic desperation that even Peter felt sorry for himself at that moment. How could anyone ever say no to him?

“Nope. Can’t. Totally booked up for the semester.”

Taken aback, Peter managed to keep the defeat from washing over his face. He instead nodded with a little too much energy for what the situation deemed appropriate. What little bit of hope he had snapped like an old, already stretched out rubber band, the kind May would keep hidden at the bottom of her junk drawer in the kitchen.

He tried to play it cool, all while simultaneously completely failing at playing it cool.

It didn’t go unnoticed by MJ. _Nothing _went unnoticed by MJ.

“Get yourself a tutor, Parker,” she casually stated, choosing to walk in-between them both to get by. Her phone was already out of her pocket and in her hands. Somehow, like she had superpowers herself, she never once looked up from the device as she walked down the campus sidewalk. How she managed to avoid any bump-ins with other classmates or street lamps amazed Peter.

“Yeah..I’ll get right on it.”

Peter sighed, both he and Ned having turned around to watch her leave. Or at least watch what they could see of her through the mass crowd of kids gathering around the outer skirts of the track field. The sight piqued their interest, a clique of teens all pooling together in one spot.

Ned found himself standing on the toes of his sneakers to see what the commotion was about, chattering excitement that could be heard even from where they stood.

“Holy cannoli!” Ned squeaked, his voice immediately losing what little puberty he had managed to go through. “Is that—!?”

That’s when Peter realized what all the fuss was about. His eyes took sight of the second tallest teenager in the crowd — not because the guy was short, it was just that no one’s height could match Daniel Kane’s towering six-foot-five, so tall that he was planning to dress up as The Hulk next month for Halloween.

Still, the crown of curly, brownish-red hair standing next to the other classmates was indisputable. Peter didn’t need to get any closer to realize who it was.

“Ned,” Peter quickly turned to face him, an apology written across his face. “I totally meant to text you, I’m so sorry —”

“Text me what?” Ned craned his head around, brows creased with confusion. “Wait, you knew he was —?”

“Awesome, sweet! Thanks, Har!”

The voices from the crowd became sharper as the activity settled down, most of the kids dispersing into the track field, others going the complete opposite direction and heading off school grounds. Peter and Ned both turned back around, watching as Flash got off one of the bleacher seats and slid his crutches underneath his arms.

Peter couldn’t help but roll his eyes; it was only the first day of school, and the plaster cast on his leg was already full of signatures.

“No problem, man. Here you go.” Harry clicked the lid back on the sharpie and handed it over, smiling politely. “And please, I appreciate the nickname, but call me Harry.”

“Oh yeah, totally, whatever you want, man.” Flash struggled to stuff the pen back into his pant pockets, all while juggling both crutches and staying balanced on one leg. He ultimately decided to just hold it.

Ned stared at Peter with a mouth so unhinged that his jaw might as well have been on the ground.

Peter grimaced sheepishly in return.

“Dude...” Ned mumbled. The look of sheer disappointment on his face was enough to send Peter plummeting back to elementary school, when after spending months saving up their allowance to buy the Jurassic Park lego set, Peter had instead used his half on an impulse to buy a Chem science kit.

Only Ned definitely seemed much angrier back then than he did now. Now, he just seemed hurt and upset. Peter desperately wished for anything but that.

“Hey, Pete!”

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Harry’s voice tore through the distance between them, the taller teen already having started a light-paced jog to reach them both.

At the same time, Flash had looked away from his scribble-covered cast, realization pushing him forward on his one good leg.

“Hey, wait, hold up!” Hobbling on his crutches, Flash struggled to try and keep pace. “You forgot to sign your last name! How are people going to know — can you just —”

Flash stumbled to a stop, waving casually, as if it was his choice to try and not meet Harry’s quick jog. His heavy breathing may have given him away. “No problem, I’ll write it in for you!”

Peter quickly turned back to Ned, words rushing out of his mouth like a broken dam.

“Okay, so, Harry’s back in town. And he’s enrolled in Midtown now, temporarily, just for the semester. Maybe. But anyway, I _just _found out this weekend, I swear. He was at Flash’s party, it’s not like we spoke before that or anything. I wasn’t keeping secrets from you, I just totally forgot, this weekend was crazy and —”

“I believe you,” Ned’s heartfelt response didn’t leave time for Peter to feel any relief. “After all, this is the guy who just abandoned you out of nowhere and didn’t even drop a DM when your uncle died —”

“_Ned!” _Peter hissed, keeping his voice hushed as he insisted, “He was our friend!”

“No, Peter, Harry was always more your friend than he was mine.” Despite the indignation coating his tone, Ned kept his voice low. “And even then, he always used you to get what he wanted.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “We were _ eleven _ _ , _Ned, how’s that even possible?”

Ned held his chin high, arms crossed over his chest as he responded, “I stand by what I said.”

Peter bit his tongue. Ned didn’t often disagree with him, typically one who would go along for the ride, stand by his side no matter what. His guy in the chair, a title they were both proud of — and one MJ would constantly make fun of.

But something about this clearly hit a little too close to home. Ned had always been a little overprotective with him, sure, but to still be upset over something that happened five years ago?

“Come on, man.” Peter’s eyes flickered rapidly to his left, noticing just how close Harry was approaching them both. “He’s coming this way. We’ll talk about it later, just be cool, alright?”

Peter could tell that Ned wanted to keep arguing. Had Harry’s presence not tore right through their hushed debate, he may very well have.

“Pete!” Harry greeted them both with hands on each of their shoulders. “And Ned! It’s so good to see you, big guy. It’s been ages!”

“Yeah,” Ned shifted on his feet, distancing himself from Harry’s touch. “My number hasn’t changed. Just so you know.”

Peter squinted his eyes, making a face that not even he knew how to describe.

“Ned, your parents didn’t give you a cell phone til you were thirteen.”

With a confidence Peter knew was all bark and no bite, Ned met his gaze squarely. “Either way, it hasn’t changed.”

Whatever face Peter was making only intensified — his eyes squinting, nose curled up— it was total disbelief etched into his every pore.

Next to him, Harry made a sound that might have been a chuckle. Possibly that, or a cough, or a mix of the two. It sounded like a blatant attempt at clearing his throat to break the tension that he had walked in on, one that Ned remained oblivious to.

“So what’s up, you guys? Was today as overwhelming for you as it was for me? Because seriously,” Harry whistled through pursed lips. “What a tsunami of information to take in. Between classes and teachers and — you know, people keep telling me this rumor about a kid that died while on a field trip with Mr. Harrington? Is that true?”

Ned took a deep breath in to answer.

Peter just narrowly managed to cut in before his friend could go on a tangent of useless and ridiculous stories.

“First days are always rough,” he said, nodding towards the three-ring binders Harry held under his arm. “What classes did they assign you?”

“Oh, here,” Harry fumbled to gather the binders from underneath his grip, managing to hold all three at once. Each was thick and full, leather-covered with what Peter had to assume was real, authentic leather. “Take a look.”

The class assignment sheet was the first of many papers he had gathered, already three-hole punched and placed neatly in his binder. Peter’s eyes scrolled down the list.

“Hey!” He pointed a finger in the middle of the paper. “Look at that, we’ll have sixth period together.”

Harry leaned over to get a better look at the assignment sheet, the both of them too preoccupied looking at the piece of paper that neither saw Ned rolling his eyes. Which was a surprisingly difficult thing to miss, considering Ned purposefully rolled his eyes more than once.

“Awesome!” Harry smiled as he looked back up at Peter. “Trigonometry and World History, two of the easiest classes we’ll have all year.”

“Actually, the thing is...I’m...” he trailed off, unsure of how to say _‘I’m a teenage genius who excels at chemistry and robotics but can’t nail basic history classes to save my life’. _He managed to settle on, “World History has never been my strong suit.”

Ned snorted so loud that he nearly caused himself to choke.

Peter shot him a glare in return.

And for the second time that day, if Harry _had_ noticed anything odd between the two of them, he kept it to himself.

“Well, if it isn’t your lucky day, Peter Parker.” His slap to Peter’s back was matched with a grin so wide it practically split his face in half. “Because World History is what I excel most at, right behind computer-aided design and economics.”

“Of course you do,” Ned muttered beneath his breath, just loud enough for Peter to hear.

“Why don’t we meet up tonight, maybe sometime after six?” Harry suggested. “I can help you with the Battle of Leyte Gulf assignment? Get you back on track in class?”

Peter’s eyes grew wide, matching the grin that slipped onto his lips. “That’d be..._ fantastic, _Harry, thank you!”

“Of course! Anything for my ‘ol pal.” Harry gave one last slap to Peter’s back before tucking his leather coated binders back underneath his arm. “You still live in Queens, right? We’ll meet up at your place! I’ll text for the details later.”

Peter nodded as he pulled at the strap to his bag, suddenly feeling less weight against his shoulders as his stress came down a notch, maybe even two. “That’s – that’s great, thank you so much, Harry.”

Harry smiled in return, pointing a finger towards Ned as he began to walk away. “See you around, big guy!”

Ned’s smile was much more forced, less genuine, barely even polite as he muttered, “Yeah, bye.”

Peter waited until Harry was out of earshot before looking over at Ned, waving towards the track field where his figure became smaller and less noticeable.

“See? He’s helping me out!” Peter insisted. “C’mon, that’s like, the opposite of using people.”

Ned’s lack of an answer was an answer within itself for Peter. His anger, or whatever Ned wanted to call it, wasn’t going away anytime soon.

With a quiet sigh, Peter had to admit that on some level, his friend was right. Back then, Harry _was _more of his friend than Ned’s. It wasn’t a personal thing; it was just how it was. Maybe there had even been some petty childish jealousy back then that Peter wasn’t aware of. It was hard to say; elementary school felt like ages ago. Even _middle _school felt like a lifetime ago.

Besides, even if he and Harry became friends again, nothing could come close to what he and Ned had now. This was his guy in the chair he was talking about. No one could replace that.

“I’ll get you a pack of Jolly Rancher Crunch and Chews before class tomorrow,” Peter said, playfully nudging a fist against Ned’s shoulder with a halfhearted smile.

Ned didn’t look his way as he insisted, “I want a signed autograph of Doctor Bruce Banner.”

“_Another _one?!”

“They're collectibles, Peter!”

* * *

“What do you think?”

Tony didn’t look up from his cell phone as he answered, “The lavender Orchids look best with the centerpieces.”

There was a pause, followed only by Rhodey clearing his throat, loud and noticeably.

“Well, I’m...sure Pepper will be thrilled to hear that.”

Tony glanced up from the phone’s screen, realization hitting him at the same time his eyes locked onto Rhodey's. The heavy sighed that came from his chest, combined with Rhodey’s cool stare, perfectly summed up what a shit-show of a day he had been having.

Day, week, month – it just never seemed to stop.

“Sorry, Rhodey,” Tony apologized, his words laced with exhaustion as he stuffed his phone deep into his pant pockets. “Too many things going on at once.”

Give him bonus points for telling the truth, because it _was_ an honest answer. He found himself heavily preoccupied these days, bouncing back between one person and the next, inundated with what felt like a million things happening at once. It wasn’t new, that was always the life of a Stark, to be busier than what they could handle.

But for some reason, for whatever reason, he was struggling to juggle all his balls lately. Why was he even thinking about Pepper’s wedding décor when he had been talking to Peter? Jesus, he couldn’t even keep things straight in his own head.

As if sensing his stress, Rhodey asked, “You wanna go over this another time?”

Tony ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back with callous fingers.

“No, no...let’s do this now while you’re here.” It wasn’t like the cluster headache growing between his eyes was going to go away anytime soon. He might as well push through it. “What more did you find?”

The tight hold of anticipation didn’t have long to grow, Rhodey having guided the manila folder closer to him on the round table they sat at. The sound of paper sliding across glass seemed to echo in his ears.

“Not much, man,” he huffed, leaning back in his chair. “There’s only so much public records will tell us, and you know the rest won’t be released without a subpoena.”

Tony opened his mouth to talk.

Rhodey held one stiff finger in the air. “Which the court will continue to throw out, so stop trying.”

His shoulders deflated like a balloon losing its air, and Tony gave Rhodey a look, the kind that said it all. He leaned forward, snatching the folder into his hands, fingers skimping through the pages with frustrated interest.

“Have I mentioned yet that it’s complete and total bull hockey that the government can take me to court over my suits, but OsCorp with all their Goliath sized rock androids gets immunity from the Senate Armed Services Committee?”

Tony grabbed a paper and tossed it over his back. Grabbed another, tossed it in the air. Rhodey watched with furrowed eyebrows as three, four, five papers went fluttering to the floor, landing on the carpet of the conference room without a sound.

“OsCorp isn’t receiving immunity, Tony,” he stressed. “They’ve been hiding their experiments — hiding them _good, _where only a magical wizard could get you to them.” Rhodey had enough – he leaned forward, yanking the folder out of Tony’s hands before he could rain anymore discarded papers to the ground. “You were flaunting yours all over the world.”

Tony eyeballed him. Rhodey met his gaze head-on.

“Touché,” Tony admitted succinctly, his hand grabbing towards his friend with a _‘gimme’ _motion, only growing more childish by the second.

It was with palpable hesitation that Rhodey handed the folder back over.

Tony flipped through the pages with more ease this time around, setting the discarded ones down next to him. The same ones he had seen by now, read over and over again, memorized even. He looked desperately for something new, something that would get them over this increasingly demoralizing plateau they had encountered.

‘_Mighty Avengers’ _be damned, it turned out there was only so much they could do on their own. Not even SHIELD had much more to offer them. It was like they had stumbled onto a goldmine and quickly had to evacuate before gathering even the smallest piece of gold.

“Not going to lie, kinda wishing that we hadn’t burned a bridge with Ross right about now,” Tony muttered under his breath.

Rhodey raised his brows, the crow’s feet around his eyes briefly lifting. “There’s no way in hell Ross would have helped us with this, bridge burned or not.”

Tony made a sound deep in his throat, a murmur of agreement. It was wishful thinking, desperate thinking at its core. But Rhodey was right. Even if they hadn’t forever pissed off Ross with the dismantling of the Accords, the former lieutenant turned Secretary of State would have instead watched with buttery popcorn as they struggled to expose OsCorp for all its dirty deeds than lend a helping hand.

The folder _plopped _back onto the surface of the round table, papers scattered out from within, dumped from his grasp without a second thought. They were useless.

“I thought we’d have more on them by now,” Tony quietly admitted, his hand scrubbing at the bottom of his goatee.

“We’re already on top of the situation,” Rhodey gave the words time to settle. “Remember…it’s only been a few months. Hydra wasn’t taken down over a summer, and these guys won’t be either. We just gotta keep pushing, gather every bit we can. Eventually, we’ll have enough to at least get that subpoena going.”

Tony heard Rhodey, each word he said made crystal clear sense, but somehow it all still meant nothing.

“It’s not good enough, Rhodey,” his voice fell hollow, tired. “I’m telling you...they’re up to something bad. I can feel it. Without a shadow of a doubt, I _know_ it.”

Rhodey pulled the discarded folder back towards him, shuffling the handful of papers back inside. All while giving Tony _that _look. The one he absolutely hated, refused to acknowledge or even look at as it was staring him down.

The one full of pity.

“I believe you, man. Whatever you saw down there, I believe it. But the court doesn’t, the committee needs proof. Until we can get that, we gotta go about this the right way.”

It was funny – in the most sincerest, non-funny way. Tony used to associate OsCorp with sleaze, with notorious research facilities scattered across the east coast that underpaid their participates for borderline illegal studies. Down the road, someone would expose them, some overly eager college student who thought this was going to be their big break. But the truth never stayed in the press long – they had a great legal and PR team keeping them from receiving nearly any negative publicity.

Tony used to associate them with the likes of AIM, Roxxon and hell, even the Daily Bugle. Never a threat, never even a competitor in the eyes of Stark Industries. A nuance, at most.

He had a much different taken on them these days. Suddenly, OsCorp was associated with havoc, means to chaos, having power to gain access to technology that they were too unruly to possess. Skulls of long since dead Chitauri manipulated, forged with their mad minds. He associated them with freezing ice water, the smell of sulfur and dead sea life.

Blood and screams. And cries.

Tony shoved the thought aside so fast it may as well have been on wheels.

“You find out anything more about that...super-solider knock-off project? The Oz Formula?” His closed fist tapped his knuckles against the table for no apparent reason other than quelling his bubbling anxiety. His head began to ache with too much caffeine, or maybe not enough.

Rhodey shook his head, his mouth setting in a grim line. “Everyone I ask about it plays clueless. And honestly, they might very well be.”

Tony cocked his head to the side. “So, we’re not talking to the right people?”

Rhodey leveled him a taut look. “I think the right people aren’t going to talk.”

Tony ran both hands down the length of his face, scrubbing his skin. His determination was running thin, his obstinacy becoming weaker with every wall they hit. And they were hitting a _lot _of walls these days. In no other terms did he just want to get this done and over with, call it a day and file away another case settled.

He was beyond tired of focusing so much on OsCorp. On goddamn Norman Osborn. Especially all things considered.

“But I _did_ find out something interesting that you may want to know,” Rhodey’s voice cut through his runaway thoughts.

Tony dropped his hands from his face, just in time to see the folder open back up, Rhodey’s fingers delicately plucking out a paper-clipped stack of documents.

“Norman’s son, Harrison Osborn – they transferred him out from his private academy here upstate,” he stated, sliding the documents towards Tony’s side of the table. “Something about the building being burned down from a kitchen fire over the summer. They couldn’t get repairs done in time for the new semester so students were placed elsewhere in the interim.”

“Okay...so the Osborn offspring has to make new friends at a different school.” Tony shrugged, barely even skimming through the papers with a bout of disinterest. “Where exactly does this get good?”

Rhodey tapped a finger at the small stack of papers, urging Tony on. “Look at what school he’s attending now.”

Tony looked down, forcing his eyes to properly read the document with patience that he, quite frankly, didn’t have. The words were monotonous, meaningless, a bunch of names followed by ages, all ending with addresses somewhere here in New York. It had his eyes nearly glazing over.

That was, until he finally caught the printed text that stood out the most. He was getting good at that – picking out the word Osborn like a needle in a haystack. His pointer finger pressed heavily against the paper, trailing sideways to keep track of it all.

Harrison Osborn, okay, that wasn’t a surprise. Age sixteen, noted. Temporarily relocated to high-school —

“Well,” Tony drawled out. “I’ll be damned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing in this world makes me happier than the idea of Tony's contact photo for Peter on his phone being one of him using shaving cream in the style of Tony's facial hair. 
> 
> (I lied. French fries make me very happy, too.)


	6. Devil in the Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tilted his head to the side, turning the bracelet over in his hands. “What is this?”
> 
> Tony cleared his throat, sniffed his nose in a way that sounded painful, drummed his fingers against the armrest of the sofa — all the things he normally did when vastly uncomfortable. He even went to push up the sunglasses he hadn’t been wearing, his hand smoothing back his hair to cover for the mistake.
> 
> “I was inspired by that little Starkbits illusion you had going on,” he explained.
> 
> Peter frowned, glancing up at Tony before looking back down at the thin, metal bracelet. He vaguely recalled the memory, most of the details having come second-hand from sources like Mr. Stark and Bruce, the two sharing the story with a hearty chuckle.
> 
> Still, those had been high-tech casts for his broken wrists. Bone stabilizing devices, Tony had called them. What could this possibly be —?
> 
> “It’s a panic watch, directly connected to me,” Tony answered, as if reading his thoughts. He lifted his arm, showing off the same sleek, black bracelet strapped around his wrist. “So if anything happens to you — earth, wind, rain or shine, you can reach out to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> User Hanri recently brought up a very good point that I wanted to address with this upcoming chapter: if Peter was friends with Harry, why didn’t he react differently when it was revealed that Oscorp was behind Awesome Android? 
> 
> You’ll actually notice that Peter’s reaction to OsCorp weren’t directly mentioned through-out Identity Theft. Most of that reflection, doubt, and even hate came from Tony. It’s established in this fic that Harry and Peter were friends a little over five years ago, but a lot can change in five years. They’re different people now (clearly, seeing as they’ve gone from boys to teenagers and what with Peter becoming Spider-man) But even with all that aside, Peter was always friends with Harry – he never had direct interaction with Norman or OsCorp. He was, after all, just a kid.
> 
> On that note, some of you may have noticed this story holds a few similarities to The Amazing Spider-man movies. There’s no denying that – in fact, I embrace it. While I adored Garfield’s performance, I felt the movies did a total disgrace to the Osborn narrative, and because I’m a petty S.O.B, I want to fix that the best way I can. 
> 
> Finally, I’ve recently been asked a handful of times on my Tumblr when this story will update. I know it’s taking a much slower pace than it’s predecessor, and for that I do apologize. I’ve got a lot going on this year that I didn’t have before. However, I will always, always, always strive for a minimum of one update a month. I love when I can manage two, but it doesn’t always work out that way. Some of these chapters exceed 10k words, and that’s a lot to cram in between two jobs and studies. So if you ever worry about me dropping the fic, or if I’m not gunna update for a while, please know that’s not the case. And if you want to put a fire up my ass, comments will ALWAYS do that. I live off feedback. Its my source of energy and fuel. So please, let’s talk in the comment section!!
> 
> Fun nerd facts!
> 
> Harry wanting to be an environmental lawyer like his mom is snatched from the PS4 Spider-man game (which is balls to the walls amazing) I’m really enjoying writing the Osborns in this fic, for as little time they’ll be around. I feel like I have a great opportunity to sorta combine all variations of the comics and media material and add in my own dash of originality to create something really, really fun. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I have!
> 
> Credit to Jason Issacs as my fancast for Norman Osborn.
> 
> And as always, I LOVE YOU ALL SO FLIPPING FRACKING MUCH! Keep being awesome, guys.

Peter tore his eyes away from the screen to his cell phone, looking high above him at the skyscraper with his neck craning back until it couldn’t bend anymore. The setting sun glared painfully against the crisp, clean glass, yellow and orange beaming into his line of vision with piercing clarity.

He had to squint until his eyes were practically closed just to be able to see the letters coming down the side of the tall tower. Each one stood bold, aesthetic, lining down vertically to say one word.

“Shoulda known...”

OsCorp.

The black camera bag hit the conveyor belt with a resounding _thud._

“Please be careful with that!” Peter called out, sandwiched between two security guards who were both equally unintimidating, in more ways than one. “That’s-that’s a, uh, that’s a _really_ expensive camera.”

Metal detectors beeped to life as each guard waved their wand up and down the length of his body, keeping him rooted in place at the front entrance of the OsCorp tower. An impromptu search was definitely the _last _thing he had been expecting tonight, and he watched with a tense jaw as his backpack and pocket belongings slid through the x-ray scanner up ahead.

At least he had small blessings to be thankful for. May had insisted he keep his suit at home, saying that if he’d be going out to study, then studying was all he’d be doing. He totally owed her for that; _two _churros at the very least.

The guard at the conveyor belt, the one who honestly was too overweight to catch a thief if they snail-paced it out of the building, gave Peter an umamused look. He pushed the tray full of belongings to the end of the belt, the items inside bouncing against each other until it came to a stop.

Peter groaned, cringing inwardly. He could hear his loose pocket change rattle in the plastic bin, all three dollars and sixty-five cents worth.

‘_Note to self, stop at Delmar’s for snacks first, not last.’ _

“Peter!” The voice came from ahead, tearing him away from his inner pity party. “I am _so _sorry, man, this is _so_ embarrassing.”

Harry approached him at the front gates of the tower, an ID badge hanging loosely around a lanyard on his neck. It bounced with every step he took.

Peter couldn’t help but wonder who he felt this was embarrassing for, what with his used gum wrappers and pocket lint currently sitting in a plastic tray for all to see.

“It’s okay, Harry, really,” Peter bit his tongue as the guards got a little too close for his liking, their wands going up and down his pant legs with no regard to personal boundaries.

The only way it could get any worse was if they made him take off his shoes. Peter wasn’t sure when he last changed his socks, and now that he started to think about it, he was pretty sure the one foot had a big gaping hole in it. He wiggled his toe for good measure. Yep, these were the socks with the hole in them. Things would definitely get worse if they asked him to take off his —

“The iWatch, kid,” the gruff security officer demanded.

Peter frowned, looking over at the guard with confusion. The beeping from the wand had picked up its pace, alerting them both to detection of metal nearby.

The guard’s eyes pointed towards Peter’s wrist, where a sleek, black bracelet was attached.

“It’s not a —” Peter shook his head, immediately going to detach Mr. Stark’s panic watch without further explanation. “Yeah, okay.”

Removing the device felt a lot stranger than he anticipated. It was almost like he had undressed naked, the chill air conditioning hitting the skin to his wrist for the first time since spring. Mr. Stark had only given him the watch less than five months ago, back when they had celebrated his belated sixteenth birthday. But he hadn’t taken it off since then.

The guard tossed it into the tray of his belongings like it was nothing.

“You have no idea how much I hate bringing people here like this,” Harry explained, waiting at the end of the conveyor belt to collect Peter’s belongings. “It makes me seem...pretentious or something. Like I’m trying to show off. And I’m not, I swear.”

An employee all but slapped a guest badge in Peter’s hand, clearly having determined there was no threat to him. The blue and gray dressed security guards stepped away, resuming their business at the entrance gates. Harry was already gathering Peter’s belongings, loose change included.

Peter’s cheeks reddened as he stuffed the coins back into his pockets. “It’s cool, man. I get it —”

“I just got caught up with work, and I didn’t want to blow you off,” Harry continued to explain, noticeably eyeing the black watch in the bin before handing it over. “I know I was an asshole for...well, for kinda doing that before and all. I didn’t want you to think I was still like that.”

Too distracted soaking in his surroundings, Peter absentmindedly nodded, unable to really absorb what Harry was saying. Now that there wasn’t a security guard latched to each side of him, it was much easier to gawk at the front lobby of the enormous tower. His eyes roamed the tall, cathedral ceilings with a strikingly reminiscent clarity.

It looked almost the same as it did three years ago. Call him crazy, but it even _smelt_ the same. The memory felt like ages ago, yet somehow still felt like the day before last. Back when things were much simpler, before his life had changed in ways he could never comprehend. It was weird to think how it all took place here. A little deterring, even.

“It’s all good, Harry, really...” he trailed off, fingers latching the black watch onto his wrist without ever looking down. The nanotech wrapped snugly against his skin at the same time realization dawned on him.

“Did you say...work?” Peter furrowed his brows, his eyes suddenly staring at the ID badge hanging around Harry’s neck. “Do you work here now?”

Harry gestured his head down the direction of the hall, taking the lead in guiding Peter through the chaotic lobby. For being past five o’clock, the building was still a beehive of activity, bustling with chatter and commotion at every corner. It reminded Peter a tad bit of the Avenger’s compound; always something going on somewhere.

“It’s an evening internship,” Harry explained, weaving them through the crowds of suits and ties. “My dad sorta...forced me into it.”

Peter narrowly avoided being shoulder-grazed by a tall man carrying a briefcase. “An internship for economics?”

“Graphic design, actually.” Harry took a sharp left down the corridor, heading straight for the two large elevator doors at the end. They weren’t hard to miss, the modern chrome so reflective that Peter could practically see himself in them.“I’m working with the visual communication department to build a design portfolio.”

Harry reached over to press the elevator button before leaning back on the heels of his feet, hands resting comfortably in his khaki pants. There was a pause between them as Peter took in what he heard, the sound of hustling corporate business filling their lull while the elevator slowly descend to the ground floor.

“Wow, Harry,” he finally managed. “Economics, statistics, graphic design...you’ve really got a lot on your plate these days.”

Harry gave a close-lipped smile as the elevator dinged open. He gestured inside for Peter to step ahead, following closely behind. It took a swipe of his ID badge before he could press another button, and a moment after that until they began to ride upwards slowly.

“Dad’s got me doing _everything. _He thinks the more I do, the better chance I have at something sticking. He doesn’t know I caught onto that, but it’s obvious. Why else would he be pushing for me to take a marketing course while I’m enrolled in a STEM school?” Harry began counting fingers on his hand as he rattled off, “I’m taking statistics on the off chance I get into enterprise analyzing, economics for business administration, mathematics for accounting and finance — you get the point.”

Just like that, a sinking weight hit Peter’s stomach. It was an odd feeling, what with the elevator lifting high as his gut dropped low. Almost like he was heavy and light at the same time. He felt _bad, _the awful sensation of guilt speaking a million negative things into his inner ear. To think that most days he struggled to balance Spider-man, school, and his social life — which let’s be honest, wasn’t much of a hot topic even before the spider bite.

Here it seemed Harry had _no _time to himself. Suddenly his _‘boring’ _weekend pranking Sam didn’t seem all that boring after all.

Ugh, and here he was having Harry tutor him in World History. _World History, _something that wouldn’t even affect his G.P.A that much. Peter shook his head; he really needed to learn to deal with his problems on his own.

“That’s...crazy,” he squawked out. “Do you ever have any time to do...you know, what _you _want to do?”

“Uh, not really, no.” Harry rubbed at the nape of his neck repeatedly, to the point that his skin grew irritated, tanned white turning into angry pink.

“Have you even thought about it?” Peter turned to look at him as he spoke, noticing how Harry stared straight ahead, unblinking at the elevator doors in front of them.

“I don’t have time to think about that,” he chuckled tensely, hand now gripping the back of his neck with a posture that seemed uptight, nervous. “Well, I mean, I have, but —”

“What is it?” Peter was quick to interrupt, a sense of eagerness coating his tone.

Harry paused, the reflection of consideration noticeable in his eyes. They both found themselves staring at the LED numbers above the doors, the count increasing as the elevator kept rising up. Peter suddenly wondered _when _exactly they were going to reach their destination.

Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three – he had almost forgotten that the OsCorp tower was only a few floors shy of being taller than the old Stark tower, now bought out and used as _office space _of all things. A year later and the thought still felt so strange to him. They were still renovating the exterior, the signage reading Basiter or Baxter or something – Peter couldn’t really tell, he never bothered to get a good look at it these days. It just wasn’t the same without the large A looking over Manhattan.

Harry noticeably cleared his throat before speaking up.

“What I really want to do is get into environmental law, like my mom.” A brief glance to his side where Peter stood and Harry let the glimmer of a smile creep up at his lips before quickly looking away. “But that has _nothing _to do with business, and that means I can’t take over the company if dad were to —”

The elevator let out a low-tone _ding,_ sounding as modern as the aesthetic surrounding them.

“Ah, here we are.”

The doors split open sharply, slowly, parting way to a much different sight than what Peter had expected. The cold, sleek design of the lobby was gone, and in its place was a much warmer atmosphere. The lights were more yellow, the walls brown and gold; there was even carpet covering the ground instead of Mosaic flooring. It was what Peter assumed rich people would call _‘homey.’ _

“Hey, real quick.” Harry stopped him the moment they both walked out of the elevator. “Not to seem, like, instructive with your personal life or anything. I know we just caught up after five years and all, so it’s totally not my business…but...”

The elevator doors slid shut, a whir of machinery filling the pause that fell between them as it began to descend back down to the ground floor.

Harry seemed hesitant before he continued, “There’s this story going around school. It’s about you.”

“About me?” Peter didn’t intend to sound like a chipmunk, yet the sudden panic that bubbled up in his chest had his throat narrowing and constricting in a way that reversed all three glorious years of his puberty.

“Yeah,” Harry saved him face, overlooking the bundle of nerves that wore heavily around Peter’s self. “And it doesn’t...I don’t know, man, it doesn’t fit you. Doesn’t seem like something you’d do. It’s probably a dumb rumor or something, I don’t know. I just...I never pinned you for _that _guy.”

Peter’s face dropped. _That guy? _What did that mean? And since when was the school talking about _him _of all people? Last he checked, Peter Parker didn’t exist unless he face-planted into his tray of lunch in the cafeteria — circa freshmen year 2015. Five million possibilities bombarded his mind, all at once, all crossing the worst-case scenario.

‘_Shit,’ _he panicked. Between Ned already knowing about Spider-man, and MJ having found out over spring break — it had to have gotten out. People _had _to be talking about him being Spider-man.

“Wh-what...what is it? What’s the rumor?” Peter stuttered, trying – and failing – to act casual. “Can’t be anything too crazy, right? Like, I’m a...I’m an Avenger or something?”

Harry looked at Peter.

“No, that’d be stupid,” he bluntly stated, mouth pinched tightly in amusement. “People are saying you went to Paris over spring break. That true, man?”

“Oh! Oh yeah, yeah, Paris…” Peter let out a sound of relief. It was only a moment later the insult hit him, an expression of offense briefly washing across his face before he recovered. “Right, yeah, I, uh, I went to Paris. For-for spring break. Paris is uh, that’s where I spent my spring break.”

_Jeeze,_ talk about high-school. It had been months since that news had gotten around to his classmates — the cover story Mr. Stark made up for him, more accurately — and yet they were still talking about it. He supposed the next ‘big thing’ hadn’t happened over summer break to get them gossiping about something else. Maybe that would change now that Harry had joined their class. It was only a matter of waiting it out.

“So, you did go!” Harry clapped him against the back, the sound echoing throughout the quiet hallway. He pointed straight ahead as they began walking, leading the way past a few corners and turns. “Look at – Peter Parker, getting out of Queens and seeing the world. Did you at least manage to visit the Catacombs while you were there?”

Peter barely caught onto the tail end of Harry’s question, too busy eyeing the different decor of the corridor they walked down.

“The Cata… — yeah totally!” The words slipped out on autopilot, his distraction taking over. He couldn’t get over how different everything looked, like they had stepped into a whole different building, the entire ambiance changing with one elevator ride.

Harry kept talking, but Peter wasn’t paying attention. His eyes roomed over every door they passed, each one labeled as individual office suites. It didn’t take long to realize they belonged to high _high _up’s in the company. People he’d never encounter in his entire life, let alone breathe the same air as them had it not been for Harry’s escort to this part of the building. There wasn’t one door that hadn’t been labeled for a Chief something or another. Chief Operating Officer, Chief Financial Officer – the only one they hadn’t come across yet was CEO.

Somehow, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if Norman had a whole floor to himself. Something fancy, overseeing The Empire State building or Rockefeller Plaza.

“So what’d you think?” Harry enthusiastically asked, failing to notice Peter’s wandering attention span. “I gotta be real with you, the skulls started to freak me out a little bit. Okay, at first, they freaked me out _a lot._ Seeing death in its raw form like that was pretty gnarly.”

Suddenly, like a snapping tree twig, Peter’s focus came back.

“Huh?” He could feel the muscles in his shoulders tense up as his head shot over to Harry. Weren’t they just talking about Paris? Where had the conversation gone?

Harry didn’t look the least bit phased.

“It really makes you think, ya know,” he continued, stopping in front of a single mahogany-colored door, the label plate reading _Osborn Lounge._ “About death and whatnot. How one moment those people are were all alive and living and now here I was, staring at their skeletons. All that was left of them. Humbling, right?”

Peter wasn’t sure what Harry was saying, his ears only picking up on certain words, the selective hearing completely out of his control. He could see his lips moving, he knew there was more to be heard besides _‘death’ _and _‘skeletons’, _but the rest was lost to him. It was as if his head had been submerged underwater, sound waves muffled and muted from the pressure of heavy liquid. A butcher knife might have well sliced right through his composure.

And with a heart pounding five times faster than he was ever used to, Peter knew something was wrong. His skin had become clammy, flushed with sweat, and breathing was suddenly difficult, his chest too tight and heavy for him to inhale air when he needed it the most.

He knew something was off, something was bad, something was very, _very,_ wrong. But why was something was wrong with _him? _

“Uh, is there, a-uh...a bathroom?” Peter stammered to ask. “That I can use. Nearby? A-a bathroom nearby?”

Harry paused upon opening the door to the lounge, hand clutching the doorknob, eyebrows drawing into a deep frown.

“I mean, there’s one inside...” he drawled out, his head cocking slightly to the side. “But yeah...if you go right down the hall, to your left.”

Peter did a quick glance behind him, swallowing away the knot that had suddenly tied his vocal cords together in one of those nearly unbreakable Boy Scout bows.

“Cool, cool.” A shaky finger pointed ahead at the door. “Meet you inside?”

Harry pursed his lips, letting his confusion slip just briefly before he nodded.

“Yeah, sounds good, pal.”

Peter smiled to the point of showing his teeth and gums, and for reasons he’d_ never_ understand, proceeded to give a _thumbs up _at Harry. The cringe that came was hard, so hard that he could feel it in his gut. Or was that the anxiety coursing through his entire core, practically ripping him apart seam by seam?

Shit. That’s what this was. He hadn’t felt anxiety this bad since...well, sheesh, it had to be since shortly after the spider-bite, when he first starting figuring out his powers. Panic attacks were kind of inevitable when he suddenly started sticking to things and could lift an entire car over his head. But something like that made sense, that moment called for this kind of raw, unadulterated panic.

This...this was something different.

As Harry closed the door to the lounge, Peter quickly made his way down the hall, his feet moving as fast as the thoughts racing through his mind. Sure, he had dealt with situational anxiety, _circumstantial_ anxiety, Mr. Stark-yelling-at-him-on-Staten-Island-and-taking-away-his-suit-anxiety, but this...this was straight out of nowhere. This anxiety had no purpose, no cause. There was no reason for him to be getting this worked up.

Right?

He knocked on the bathroom door. Once, twice, three times —

“I don’t know what miracle he’s expecting us to pull off,” a voice quickly came from his right, where a door swung open, and a slew of personnel came striding through. “There’s only so much this team can do without the original census data to the birth host.”

Peter watched with wide eyes as scientist after scientist passed by him, lab coats brightening up the dimly lit area, each coming through the door at the very end of the hallway.

“By now, Doctor Frye, you should know how he works.” High-heels accompanied the female voice that followed, and Peter could barely make out a long-haired ponytail tied back tightly, nearly hidden behind two much taller men blocking his view. “Take it or leave it. This is what he expects, this is what we need to do.”

At least five more lab coats tailed behind the two speaking voices, arriving from the same door the others came pouring through. Peter eyed that door with curiosity – it wasn’t labeled, yet it looked like it went somewhere very important.

“How long does he have, Doctor Adler?”

The voices began to dissipate down the hallway, the distance between Peter and the huddle of scientists creating a draft that his hammering heartbeat wouldn’t allow him to fully hear. They were heading towards the elevator just as the last scientist walked through the unlabeled door across the way.

“At this rate, we’re lucky to squeeze in two months. Get a baseline on the chemical structure, send it to chemistry for a...”

Peter looked down the hall, watching as the heavy door began to close. It was like slow motion, each inch turning into centimeters, each second like a minute. He quickly turned his head back around, watching the scientists load up into the elevator, none even noticing his presence.

He looked back at the door.

_'Don’t do it, Parker.’_

It slowly began to shut, the hinges squeaking metal along the way.

_'Seriously. Don’t do it.’_

His hand gripped the bathroom doorknob, tightly, the metal creaking with strain underneath his grip.

_'Don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it _—_’ _

Peter made a run for it.

The hallway filled with two simulations sounds; elevator doors sliding shut at the same time the singular door across the corridor finally closed in on itself.

Though not before Peter could narrowly squeeze on through.

‘_Are you serious right now, dude!?’ _Peter froze, his back pressed tightly against the chill metal of the door that shut behind him. He didn’t move, didn’t even dare to breathe. For a brief moment, he pretended not to exist, just in case his stupid, spontaneous decision had gotten him into a world of trouble. It would _totally _be his luck that an employee would be waiting around the corner, wondering what the hell he was doing sneaking into an area that was clearly off-limits.

Off limit areas. OsCorp. Déjà vu — major déjà vu.

A few seconds and many deep breaths later, Peter realized there was no one around. The room was a vestibule, another door straight ahead that would lead him elsewhere. If, that was, he chose to proceed. Which he shouldn’t, he absolutely knew he shouldn’t. He should just go back to Harry, begin studying, and have a normal, average night like regular teenagers do.

He couldn’t help it. The anxiety riddling his body was instantly replaced with boiling curiosity, the type that almost comforted him, to feel anything besides the pestering nerves that sent pins and needles up his skin. Curiosity he was used to, a feeling he loved. After all, nerds like him were _always _curious. Was it really his fault that curiosity typically came with danger?

The door ahead opened easily, without any assistance of his super strength needed. Peter paused, closing his eyes tightly, almost trying to talk himself out of it.

And then, like the irresponsible teenager he knew he was becoming, he snuck inside.

‘_See, Parker? This is how you got into trouble the last time you came here. Do you want another mutated bug bite? Because this is how you get mutated bug bites!’_

Danger be damned – he was Spider-man now. He could handle himself. And Mr. Stark and the rest of the Avengers had been talking for months now about something being _off _with OsCorp, though they never gave him any details what. Something told him there was much more to the story of why they were investigating the company, and why they were keeping Peter out of it.

Companies didn’t just have underwater bases of operations, after all.

So what was it about OsCorp that was trouble?

‘_Maybe I can find something on Awesome Android. Or why they created that sea building thingy, ’ _ Peter thought, catching sight of stairs nearby and quickly jogging up them, as quietly as he could. _ ‘If Mr. Stark and the team really think there’s something wrong with OsCorp, maybe I can help them figure out what it is!’ _

The stairway was dark, leading up to a total of what had to be two or three floors. After looking around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, Peter noticed it was surprisingly void of security cameras. It only further piqued his curiosity. Why wasn’t this area of the building monitored, or alarmed?

He shook his head, the deja vu stronger now than ever. This wasn’t like then, he wasn’t going to get bit by _ anything _this time.

There was one flight of stairs remaining, leading to a door at the very top. It almost surprised him that the doorknob was so old-fashion, nothing electronic, nothing fancy. No badge swipe needed, no code access required. Hell, even his personal quarters at the Avengers compound required fingerprints to get inside. The chances of anything top-secret being hidden behind such lack-luster security had to be slim to none. For all he knew, Peter was walking straight into a janitor’s closet.

The doorknob didn’t twist, not fully, not with the lock in place keeping the door shut. Peter _ may _have twisted the knob a little too hard the third time around, surreptitiously, in a way no one would notice. A crackling splinter of metal echoed the stairway and slowly, the door creaked open.

“Whoa...” Peter’s eyes reflected the bright blue and silver light that illuminated the room, dimly lit, most coming from the multitude of science equipment filling every corner his eyes could land on.

It was a lab.

_ Of course _it as a lab.

‘_Okay, but at least it’s not a janitor’s closet,’ _ Peter let the door slowly shut behind him, putting in extra effort to muffle the sound. _ ‘So...win for me?’ _

He had once encountered an abundance of abandoned OsCorp tech and equipment, rusting away, unused and untouched for who knows how long. Everything he looked at right now was very much active, beeping with life, lights glowing with electricity.

The space was filled with everything he could imagine – apparatus cases, oxygen tanks, tube stations, glass-door refrigerators, and automated analyzer machines. The countertops were littered with microscopes and centrifuges, and the walls were enclosed with incubator tanks, each one containing something locked away.

On any other given day, Peter would have been ecstatic to be in the presence of such impressive equipment. And perhaps he would have been right now, if it weren’t for the growing dread in the pit of his stomach.

‘_Hidden, secretive _ _ laboratories...things didn’t go too well last time you found one of those, Parker.’ _

He took a step forward, and as he did, his camera bag bounced against his hip. His hands trembled slightly as he fought to unlatch the top flap and bring the camera out. Why his hands were shaking, he wasn’t too sure. Something just didn’t feel _ right. _Like a tingle in his head, growing by the second.

Which is why he snapped photo after photo. Like MJ would always say – documentation, or it didn’t happen. She was really smart. He liked that about her. He liked a lot about her.

‘_Not now, dude. Focus,’ _Peter forced a steady hand as he turned the camera on.

Left, right, top, bottom – he took picture after picture. Of course, there wasn’t much outside of equipment to take photos of, but some of the equipment was just downright _ weird. _What was OsCorp’s obsession with tanks? The room had two, both flush against the wall, both dry and empty.

He was in the middle of snapping a picture when a sharp buzzing hit the back of his neck.

Peter spun around. The alert for danger was strong, persistent. Painful. And yet all he saw were the incubator tanks ahead, back-lit with blue and white bulbs, each harvesting…._something._

His fingers gripped the hefty camera tightly, his feet slowly approaching the row of compact, mini-fridge sized equipment lining the walls. The closer he got, the warmer he felt, the heat radiating from inside strong enough of feel at even a distances length. He could tell that the tank was humid, fog condensing the edges of the glass.

He cocked his head to the side, studying the object inside. The sharp tingle at the base of his skull increased, but so did his curiosity.

Peter snapped a photo, just one, before lowering his camera down.

Whatever was inside, they were _growing _it. Breeding it.

And yet it didn’t look like an animal, or a creature, it didn’t look like anything but a – Peter squinted his eyes, mere feet from the glass incubator tank. It looked like a black smudge, a blob. Just...goo.

He did a quick glance at the other tanks, the ones nearby that he could see in the dimly lit lab. They all contained something similar, but the objects inside weren’t nearly the same as this one. They were smaller, less shiny even, almost as if they had been left to shrivel up and rot – left to die, whatever they were.

Maybe he had been looking at it for too long, maybe he had begun to zone out and his eyes were playing tricks on him. But the longer Peter looked, the more he began to wonder.

‘_Is that thing...’ _ Peter’ s eyes burned as he stared . _ ‘Holy cow, is that thing...alive?’ _

It moved. Like it was breathing, like it had a mind of its own.

Peter reached out to touch the glass —

“Hello?” The door creaked open, and Peter shot his head over towards the sound. “Doctor Frye, are you still in here?”

‘_Shit! Shitshitshit _ — _ ’ _

Peter didn’t waste a second’s worth of time. He looked up, jumped to the ceiling with silent ease, his sticky fingers gripping the sleek, cold, aluminum metal from above. Never in his entire life had he been so grateful for ceiling vents than that very moment.

Before the scientist had stepped foot into the room, he had climbed through one, gone before any witnesses could catch him.

He never saw the black slime from inside the incubator tank reach out to him, blocked by the cage it was contained in.

The hallway he dropped into wasn’t much different than the one from before, warm yellow light bulbs with carpet covering the floor. It was the executive hallways, the ones Harry had brought him to. At least, that’s what it looked to be.

Peter was extra quiet in his descent to the ground, making sure to cover the ceiling vent before dropping to his feet. A soft _‘tft’ _was the only sound he made.

‘_That...was WAY too close.’ _Peter breathed a sigh of relief to himself, turning the corner and —

“What are you doing here?”

He froze, unable to take another step forward. Peter’s eyes shot wide open, locked intently on the broad chest of the tall man he nearly ran straight into. There were only two wrinkles lining the clean, white button-down shirt in front of him, exposed from the open black blazer. Whoever it was, they wore no name-tag, no visible badge.

Canning his neck up, Peter immediately realized why.

CEO’s didn’t often _have _to.

Norman arched an eyebrow high, filling the stressful silence with, “Are you lost?”

The question seemed to echo. Not so much in the hallway, the walls keeping sound to a minimum, but rather through Peter’s ears. It bounced around in his head, beating against his skill to the same tune of his heartbeat — fast, erratic, hard. He tried to gulp, the little bit of moisture unable to slid down his tightly shut throat.

‘_Shit.’_

Norman’s eyebrow lifted higher.

‘_Double shit.’_

“Yes!” Peter blurted out, his voice squeaking in pitch. “Yes, I’m —”

“— familiar,” Norman filled in, head tilting to the side with visible contemplation. “You look familiar.”

There was something incredibly daunting about the way Norman stared at him; studied him. Peter swallowed thickly, having lost count of how fast his heart was hammering in his chest. His pulse thumped unpredictably under his skin, in a way that made his arms and neck sticky with a thin layer of sweat.

Norman simply stared at him, perceiving. Examining.

“I’m here with Harry, sir,” Peter choked out, realizing just in time that he was gripping the body of his camera a _little _too tightly. For being so worried about the security guards damaging it, he was about to shatter it into pieces. “I’m a friend of his.”

The words felt weird coming out of his mouth, a little too odd, a bit too strange. Almost like a lie that wasn’t totally a lie. But now wasn’t a time he could deliberate on the finer points of it all. Not with Norman’s firm gaze holding him hostage.

There was a blink, a shuffle of movement as Norman shifted on his feet. A forced smile pulled his lips upward, just slightly.

“Well then...” he hesitated with his movements, hand reaching out briefly and pausing mid-air around the back of Peter’s elbow. He never allowed himself to make contact. “Follow me to my office. We’ll call Harry, get you back down to his lounge.”

Peter nodded jerkily. “Yes, sir.”

Their walk down the hallway couldn’t have lasted more than a half a minute, a full minute at most. Yet it felt like the longest moment in Peter’s entire life. The silence was oppressive, hanging heavily in the air, the sound of their footsteps suddenly the loudest noise he’d ever heard. His only saving grace was the camera he still held in his hands, the reminder to not accidentally crush it keeping his rampant thoughts at bay.

They approached Norman’s office together. Inside, the lights were already on, albeit dim, and there was a slew of paperwork scattered across the large, expensive-looking desk. Peter noticed notice that all the windows — which were a lot, being a corner office on the very top of the skyline tower — had been covered with thick, dark curtains, the seams of which draped low to the floor. There was a fireplace flush against the wall near the bookcases. It wasn’t lit.

So caught up scanning his surroundings, Peter never paid attention as Norman closed the office door behind them. The sound startled him, his shoulders jerking in response.

‘_Come on, Parker. Play it cool...play it cool...’_

If Norman had noticed his tightly wound nerves, he surely didn’t mention it. He casually walked around Peter, his moves holding purpose as he slipped off his black blazer. With one smooth motion did he slip it around the back of his desk chair, settling down in the seat while reaching forward to pick up the cordless telephone nearby.

“Cynthia,” Norman spoke into the handset of his phone, “page Harrison to my office, please.”

Peter looked away from the rows and rows of bookcases lining the walls, eyeing Norman with a sense of confusion. Was that a secretary he had been talking to? Why couldn’t he just call Harry himself?

Around the same time, Norman locked eyes on him. He nodded to towards the empty chair in front of his desk.

“Have a seat.”

Everything boiling within Peter certainly did _not _want to sit in the plush, leather chair across from Norman. In fact, if it were even possible, his senses were screaming louder now than they had been before. The moment was growing so intense that it was hard to differentiate his spider-sense from his own anxiety, serrated and piercing, loud and fuzzy at the back of his neck.

Feelings of panic be damned, Norman’s hard stare was enough to have him scuttling into the over sized chair. And only once he sat down did the man look away, preoccupying himself with gathering the scattered papers across his desk. Peter noticed that they were all turned upside down; he couldn’t sneak a peak even if he had wanted too.

Norman neatly stacked the documents aside. “You’ve been Harrison's friend for a while, Mr…?”

“Parker. Peter Parker, sir.” Peter set his hands low into his lap. “And...yeah, sort of. But not really. We —”

“Were you that disabled boy Harrison would bring to the house?” Norman never looked up from the papers as he spoke. “The one in the wheelchair who drooled a lot?”

Peter blinked, digesting the question.

“No sir, I’m...I’m pretty sure that was David Kemp,” he paused, fingers tight in their cupped hold. “I’m also pretty sure that kid is dead now.”

Norman made a noncommittal sound, his one and only response to the short-lived conversation. His eyes never broke away from the surface of his desk, staring intently at stacks of papers while simultaneously sorting through others.

Peter briefly wondered – if he’d got up and left this very second, would the man even notice? Considering he had already tested his luck once already, he decided to stay seated. As it was, he was really pushing his Parker luck today.

Restless and nervous, Peter began looking around the comfortably sized room, taking in details of things he hadn’t first observed. It was interesting how much less modern the office was designed. While all of OsCorp remained contemporary, Norman’s office was...well, _ not. _

Peter wasn’t quite sure what to call it, what the word would be. _ ‘Old’ _ came to mind, though he supposed it could be called _ ‘traditional’ _as well. There was a lot of wood — covering the walls, his desk, and bookcases. While every other room in OsCorp was bright, contemporary silver and sleek, Norman’s office was the opposite. It was full of deep, rich colored tones that were barely highlighted under the dim yellow lights, what in all terms should have created a cozy environment, elegant and relaxed.

Yet the heavy smell of cedarwood and leather had him on edge, tying knots in his gut. There was also some cologne heavy in the air, one he’d never encountered before. It was strong, oily. A stuffy, musky aroma that coated his nostrils, too strong, bordering on overwhelming. Peter didn’t like it.

He also couldn’t help but notice that the walls were covered in diplomas, certificates, flaunting his PhD, his CEO credentials — everything formal, everything professional.

Not one family photo was in sight.

“You into journalism?”

Norman’s voice brought him back to the present moment. Peter snapped his head over, realizing that the man was talking to him, engaging him. An uneven breath momentarily stole his response. He wasn’t too sure why — he wasn’t typically _this awkward_, this uncomfortable. But there was something odd about the way Norman would look at him. Straight in the eyes, unfaltering, unrelenting.

Peter didn’t like that, either.

When he didn’t answer right away, Norman nodded towards the camera hanging at his hip.

“Uh, not really, no,” Peter stammered out. “I...more like photography.”

Norman leaned back in his chair, the slightest _ creak _resonating in the room. “I don’t often see children of your age casually carrying around the highest tech on the market for their...selfies. You must really have a passion, Mr. Parker.”

“I suppose,” he managed. “I’m, uh, I’m more into science, though. Chemistry and stuff.”

Norman hummed. “So you’re an intern here at OsCorp.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “No! No, I’m —”

“Stark caught you first.”

A humorless smile crept on his lips, the kind that showed no teeth, no genuine contentment. Peter’s eyebrows furrowed with confusion, and Norman nodded again, this time to the watch wrapped around Peter’s wrist.

“If you don’t want people to know, I would recommend not wearing his tech.”

Peter did a quick glance down, immediately going to stuff his hand inside his jean pockets.

“Right,” Peter muttered, cursing under his breath. For being so noticeable, the stupid nanotech felt like a second skin, one he kept forgetting he was even wearing. “I’m uh, I have an internship there. With Stark Industries.”

Norman titled his head to the side, indulging himself in interest.

“What is it that you do?”

Peter bit his bottom lip, suddenly wishing for the uncomfortable silence to return.

“I’m a, uh...I assist in their Science and Technology division,” he scrambled to think on top of his feet. “Mainly in, uhm...engineering and uh...chemistry.”

Peter held back his grin, proud of how quickly he had come up with _ that _one. And hey, it wasn’t totally a lie. Using Mr. Stark’s labs for the tech in his suit was totally engineering, and he was constantly working new chemistry equations with reinventing the chemicals in his web-fluids.

But, still. He made a mental note to talk with Mr. Stark about doing something to make this internship look real. Especially now that Norman OsCorp of all people was calling him out on it. Hell, even a photo would do. _ Something. _

“Well, that’s a shame,” Norman carried on, his hands folding methodically on the top of his desk. “A boy as smart as yourself could do some impressive work with us here at OsCorp. You should consider attending open house, see what we have to offer.”

“I have, sir.” The words were out of Peter’s mouth before he realized it. His eyes shot wide, his brain quickly working to backtrack. “Something similar, anyway. My class went on a field trip here a few years back.”

Norman perked up, his eyebrows dangerously close to disappearing into his hairline.

“Field trip, you say? We haven’t opened doors to one of those in quite some time now. The company stopped after an...unfortunate loss of research.” Norman cleared his throat, sitting up straighter in the high back, executive styled chair. “The public relations department decided it’d be best not to increase any likelihood of students getting hurt because of our inventions.”

The room fell so quite that Peter was sure he could hear a pin drop, _without _his enhanced hearing. His spine stiffened, his face failing to conceal his rising panic.

“What-what research was lost?”

Norman’s eyes flittered up to his, a moment of deliberation etching across his features in the beat that followed. It seemed he was debating on whether or not he should provide an answer, if it was in his best interest to start such a discussion over what Peter knew had to be sensitive information.

With or without an explanation, Peter had the answer. He knew it sat directly in his DNA.

“Our one and only success with genetic modification,” Norman explained. “All the testing was performed on one solitary spider.”

Peter didn’t break eye contact with him, not even as his foot taped incessantly on the floor — _tap tap tap tap taptaptaptaptaptap_ growing more and more unremitting.

“Oh, uh, nothing...nothing like that happened on my field trip.” His throat spasmed, his nerves getting the best of him. “It was smooth sailing. Actually, it was kind of boring.” Peter realized a second too late what he had said. If it were possible, his eyes grew even wider. “Not-not that this place is boring! Not at all, no, it was just...that day was boring. I think. I was tired? It was a long day and you know, I actually wasn’t here for most of it, I got in trouble and had to stay on the bus and —”

“It’s just interesting to me,” Norman interrupted. His face was pinched in thought, clearly paying little to no attention to Peter’s rambling. “We lost that spider and...not even six months later there’s a new vigilante on the streets of New York. Calling himself...low and behold – Spider-man.”

Suddenly, every hair on Peter’s body stood up straight, in a way he knew was most certainly _not _his spider-sense. They felt like knives across his skin, sharp-edged goosebumps that ran deep into his muscles.

“That’s a...big coincidence, sir.”

The way Norman smiled at him — all lip, no teeth — it had Peter’s breath quickening in his chest. He didn’t understand what it was; there was nothing inherently threatening about the man, perhaps a bit intimidating, even unnerving. But certainly nothing threatening.

Yet there was a sense of anxiety he couldn’t shake, a feeling of unease threading deep into his core.

“_Coincidences mean you're on the right path. _Simon Van Booy.” Norman leaned back in his chair, settling his folded hands across his stomach. “My wife’s favorite book, and the last she would read.”

Peter’s eyes fluttered to the floor, memories of his childhood suddenly slowing down his racing heartbeat and hasty breathing. He remembered Harry’s mom — didn’t know how for long, barely ever saw her to begin with, but he definitely saw her more than he ever saw Norman.

Norman had always been like a ghost in Harry’s life. Mentioned, never seen.

Mrs. Osborn though — Peter remembered her as being a very nice woman, sweet as ever, genuinely kind. It was without any doubt where Harry got most his personality from. Uncle Ben had been the one to take him to the funeral, May having been tied up with something else. He remembered hugging Harry tighter than ever that day. They ended up seeing each other again a few more times, casually, never outside of school. It wasn’t long after Harry was transferred upstate. A few months after that and Ben had been shot. Harry didn’t attend that funeral.

Their own tragedies seemed to pull them apart instead of bring them together. Peter wished it had been different.

“You much on history, Mr. Parker?”

The question caught him off guard. Peter looked up, swallowing hard.

“Uh, no, sir. I’m actually...struggling a bit in that area. But Harry’s —”

“Did you know that the first recorded mention of cancer came around 1600 B.C. Egypt? A lot of people don’t know that,” Norman mused aloud, his tone cool, contemplative. “They think cancer came along with cigarettes and food preservatives. They think we brought cancer on ourselves as a plague...a plague of modern society. But it’s always been there...since man first figured out how to poke and prod itself — it’s always been there.”

Peter felt frozen in his seat, muscles all but paralyzed, as if he was worried any movement would disturb the sudden conversation that had uprooted from Norman. He listened intently, expression fixated.

“Then you skip ahead to Greece and Rome,” Norman waved a hand about, “Sure, doctors, Hippocrates and Galen lifted their ideas of medicine from magic and superstitious nonsensical suppositions. But it was the Hippocrates who named it. They named it cancer; karkinoma in Greek because a tumor looked like a crab. Karkinoma.”

The words floated in the air like an afternoon lecture, practiced and perfected, studied to a tee.

“And slowly but surely we got a better understanding of human anatomy. Then better technology. Better microscopes...then comes better understanding of cell structure.” His fingers played idly across the armrest of his chair as he explained, “Chemical carcinogens, diagnostic techniques, chemotherapy...and before we know it, oncology is a science. You like science, don’t you, Mr. Parker?”

Peter felt a chill work down his spine as he stared at the man so casually going on about something that felt incredibly out of the blue. He frowned, his eyebrows tugging down.

“Yes, sir,” he managed, distantly but acutely wondering _‘__where exactly is this going?’_

Norman met his eyes for the first time since he began speaking.

“Our understanding and treatment of cancer has evolved greatly in the last few decades thanks to science, massively in the past era. But we’re still not _there _yet, are we?” He shook his head, answering his own question, “No, we’re not. And that’s where OsCorp comes in, where we try to bridge the gap between society’s apathy and failure to push onward to greater achievement.”

Norman adjusted himself stiffly in the chair, sitting up straight and leaning closer to the desk that separated him and Peter.

“I’m not sure what Stark Industries is doing these days, outside of designing the most outlandish, sensationalist costumes for their above-the-law vigilantes. But I can, and will, speak for myself and for this company.” Two fingers tapped firmly on the wooden desk. “We’re one step away from creating a cure for cancer, one for all of mankind to revel in.”

It took a moment of pause for Peter to register what Norman had said, for the words to truly sink in. When they did, his eyes widened, his jaw slowly un-working from the tense hold it had been locked in.

“Really?” Peter gaped. “A-a cure for —”

“The theory isn’t a new one,” Norman went on to say. “The human body carries within itself the ability to create everything it needs to function. Everything it needs to fight off any disease, to starve off any cancer. You see, this treatment...it’s better, wiser. A genetic bodysuit that would temporarily take hold of a patients biology, find out what their body needs, and then find a natural solution. If a cancer has spread — a tumor — the suit would search the body for the right natural toxins, find solutions on the patients own body chemistry, and put them to work. No radiation, no poison, no destruction of your own immune system. This would find cancer, diagnose it, and kill it. The ultimate natural medical treatment.”

Norman’s timing was precise, as if he wanted just a mere split second to pass before speaking again, just enough time to let the awe and wonderment spread across Peter’s features.

“It’s a shame, though,” he leaned back in his chair, hands settling into his lap once more. “Many people will die before we can get it off the ground.”

Peter blinked, eyelashes fluttering as he failed to veneer his confusion. “Why?”

Something odd crossed along Norman’s face. Not quite hesitance, not quite distrust. Yet the difference wrought was noticeable, tangible. For a brief second, Peter wondered if it could possibly be desperation.

It was gone before he could even question it.

“That spider that we spoke of contained the genetic material needed to go any further. And unfortunately it, along with all its data, is lost to us.”

With a rushing gravity that didn’t exist, Peter felt his stomach drop five feet below where it was supposed to be. The feeling was so intense that breathing suddenly became a task he didn’t have the coordination for.

Especially not as Norman stood up from his chair, walking the distance between them to sit on the edge of his desk.

The smell of musky cologne became stronger, overpowering, coating his nostrils in the scent that shot his nerves, fried them to a crisp. Norman sat directly across from him, looking down. And Peter gulped as he looked up, watching the man adjust the tie hanging around his neck. Two wrinkles on his white button-down, nothing more.

“With all that said, Mr. Parker, I must ask...” Norman stared sat him, unblinking, for a long time. “If that spider was lost on the day of your tour, would you have any clues as to...what may have transpired?”

It was a subconscious instinct to grab his hand, unintended, one that neither of them noticed until it was too late. Peter rubbed the skin near his wrist before promptly letting go.

“I’m sorry, sir. I was...” Peter timidly shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Norman arched one an eyebrow high on his forehead, the other staying low as he stared at Peter. Slowly but surely, he forced a tug at his lips, a weak endeavor at a grin.

“That’s quite alright. My bio-organic chemistry department is already working hard on replicating the genetic material,” Norman said in a carefully measured voice, his eyes looking beyond Peter, seemingly far off. “It’ll simply take...time.”

Peter swallowed again, his throat tight from the heavy aroma whiffing off Norman’s blazer jacket. He opened his mouth to speak before closing it immediately, unsure of what he would even say. Besides, what more was there to say? _‘Sorry for being the thing that put a stop to your cure for cancer. Try and keep your spiders in better cages next time.’ _

Suddenly full of guilt, or shame — or a combination of both — Peter looked away, unable to handle the expression on Norman’s face. He couldn’t lock down what it was; worry maybe, or something more akin to frustration. Whatever it was, it wore heavy on his face, etching deep into the tired lines around his eyes and lips.

Around the same time, Norman stood up straight, putting distance between himself and the desk, and subsequently Peter.

“On that note, please, think twice about where you’d like to spend your free time. OsCorp has a lot it could offer you, and even more the other way around.” He neared back around to his chair, gesturing his open palm out towards Peter. “Tony Stark, well...he’s a careerist, son. Everything he says and does is in a way to advance only himself. You’re getting paid, correct? Perhaps we could discuss wages to try and sway your opinion.”

“Uh, no, sir. I’m...” Peter shook his head with jerky movements, the bob in his throat working up a storm as he choked out, “I’m not getting paid at all. Just...happy for the experience.”

Half-way into sitting back down in his chair and Norman paused, his eyes latching onto Peter’s for a brief moment. An audible _‘hm’ _bounced between them, gone once the creak of leather took its place.

“Well...regardless, the offer remains to stand.” Norman leaned back, hands folding neatly into his lap. “Know your worth, Mr. Parker.”

Peter wasn’t sure if he nodded. He wasn’t sure if he even managed something remotely close to a nod, the muscles in his neck stiff and hard, the tension in the room thicker than the awful smell of rich cologne and furnished wood. His focus remained taunt, noticing how something seemed to dripped in Norman’s tone, insidious, sticking to Peter like glue.

Five knocks was all it took to tear him away from that one thought.

“Dad?” A door slowly creaked open. “Cindy said that you called for me —”

Harry stood in the doorway, polite caution thrown out the window at the sight of Peter sitting across from his father. His eyebrows flew up, his eyes widening twice their size.

“Pete! Jeeze, there you are. Where the hell did you go? How’d you —” He quickly looked to Norman, his face all but paling at the realization of what he had walked in on. “How’d you end up in my father’s office?”

Though his question had no heat or bark, Peter still fumbled for a response, somehow managing the feeling that he had been scrutinized. Or caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing, which in all fairness was more accurate and something he one-hundred-percent deserved.

“It’s alright, Harrison,” Norman answered for him.“Your friend and I were just having a little chat.”

Harry looked between them, his features the epitome of soured confusion.

“I got lost,” Peter finally choked out, stirring slightly in his chair. “Your dad had me wait here for you.”

Harry took a few steps further into the room. “How’d you get lost? The bathroom was down the hall, not _three stories _up the building.”

Peter sheepishly shrugged, somehow making it look like involuntary twitch. “I’m horrible with directions.”

Harry sighed, one that quickly turned into a chuckle. His closed fist knocked gently against Peter’s shoulder, the slightest of grins pulling at his lips.

“Man, you haven’t change a day.” His chuckle dissipated into a rough cough that he kept in his throat, audibly clearing the pathways to his vocal cords before he spoke again, this time looking directly ahead. “Did you need me for anything else, dad?”

“That was all,” Norman dismissed them both with a wave of his hand, his chin tilted low, eyes having returned focus to the paperwork on his desk. “You may leave.”

The interaction held the same sentiment as if Norman was talking with one of his employees; cold, distant, terse. Slowly, Peter stood up from the over-sized, leather-covered chair he had been sitting in, stuck in the moment of his own confused disorientation.

Without realizing it, his eyes flickered back and forth between the Harry and Norman; two individuals who he knew without certainty were father and son, yet acted nothing of the like. At least not on Norman’s end, the businessman returning to his work without so much as a kind gesture towards Harry.

Peter knew things were strained between them. They always had been — Harry would often mention that he felt Norman never wanted kids, that he was an accident-turned-successor-in-the-making. From the looks of it, things only got worse after Harry’s mom passed away.

Still...hearing was always different from seeing, and what he saw — well, he didn’t like it. On many levels. Specifically, the odd feeling that Norman gave him, a feeling so similar to his spider-sense that he almost couldn't tell the difference.

Something just didn’t seem...right.

A tug at his arm caught him off guard.

“Come on, dude,” Harry whispered, encouraging him out with an arm wrapped around his bicep.

Peter’s voice was paper-thin as he nodded. “Right...let’s go.”

No further goodbyes were said. Harry didn’t even look behind them as he closed the door, though Peter did, catching sight of Norman reviewing the documents on his desk. He studied them with intense concentration, the lines deep on his forehead aging him by a handful of years.

And though they left, Peter’s growing suspicion stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahahaha
> 
> I’m such a tease.


	7. First Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s punches were sloppy, panicked, desperate. If he managed to land a hit, it only furthered to anger the man. He was breathless and drenched in sweat, absolutely terrified. He felt like he was in a twisted game of cat and mouse, and he was the mouse that couldn’t get away.
> 
> Dmitri, on the other hand, moved in exact, smooth precision. Each throw meant to crush each block. He wasn’t skilled, he was an expert.
> 
> Peter slid on the ground from a blow to his stomach. Looking up, he barely had time to roll as Dmitri came to attack him again. He stood no chance at winning without his spider-sense. The man moved with such sharp agility that could easily give Natasha a run for her money.
> 
> _‘Must be a Russian thing.’ _

Adidas pants – check.

Tennis shoes – double check.

Sweat band – Peter ran a hand through his hair.

No sweat band.

Crap, he didn’t have a sweatband. Did he need one? He probably needed one. Who was he kidding, he definitely needed one. What was he thinking coming here without a sweatband? Maybe if he left now, he could run to his room and grab it — wait, did he even own a sweatband? Oh god, he didn’t have a sweatband, of course he didn’t own a sweatband, why would he even own a sweatband? Maybe he should just reschedule — yeah, rescheduling sounded good, really good, he should definitely reschedule and —

‘_No, Parker, stop that_!’ Peter shook his head — hard, looking like a wet dog trying to shake their fur dry. ‘_You got this. You totally got this. You can do this. You’re Spider-man, you can do this!’_

This was nothing. This was a breeze. He’d fought a crazed man with mechanical wings, a rock android wreaking havoc on the Hudson River, a maniac in a fishbowl tank — this would be like a walk in a park compared to all that!

“I’m ready,” he took a deep breath in, hands clapping together, feet jumping from one foot to the other. “I can totally do this. I’m ready.”

Yet again, the plane he stopped from being hijacked _did _ultimately crash on the beach…

And that rock android threw him into a lake…

And Mysterio pretty much kidnapped him – okay, he totally kidnapped him, like one-hundred percent kidnapped him —

“I’m so not ready for this.” Peter spun around, fast, heading straight for the exit.

“Oh _pauk-rebenok,_” the slightest hint of a sing-song echoed through the gymnasium, followed by the lightest of footsteps making their way across the glossy maple floors.

The double doors behind him swung shut with gentle ease. There was another pair straight ahead, leading out the opposite way. Peter wondered if he made a run for it now, if she’d have ever noticed he was here. Maybe there was a ceiling vent he could jump into — he’d been getting really lucky with ceiling vents lately.

He rolled his eyes at the thought. Of _course _she’d know he was here. She was, after all, the –

“The Black Widow is here for training.”

Peter turned around, forcing a grin much less genuine than Natasha’s.

She was all smiles as she presented herself. One hand rested casually on the hip that was popped out, legs clad in simple black leggings with an over-sized SHIELD t-shirt tied in a bunch at her waist. It was a simple, carefree workout attire. And yet somehow it still managed to put his worn out and ripped-at the-collar _‘Coney Island 2008’ _t-shirt to shame.

“Right,” Peter gulped, feeling his heart hammering a little too hard beneath his rib-cage. There was no amount of psyching himself up that could have prepared him for the real deal. Here she was, Natasha-Friggin-Romanoff, _the _Black Widow. Not here for lunch, or his birthday party, or a casual chithcat – she was here to train him — lousy, dorky, Peter Parker of all people.

Just as a bead of sweat dripped down from his forehead and into his eyelash, Peter decided that yep – he should have brought a sweatband.

He so wasn’t ready for this.

“Can we...maybe do this another day?” Peter stammered, fingers fiddling with the drawstring to his sweatpants. “I’m actually feeling a bit...gassy?”

Oh my god, did he just — the poorly thought excuse left his mouth before he knew it. Peter’s eyes shot wide open, large enough that if his eyeballs weren’t connected to tissue inside his skull, they’d surely have popped right out. It wouldn’t make a difference if they had; his eyeballs could roll directly next to Natasha’s feet, clad in ballerina slippers, and he’d have already reached maxed levels of embarrassment.

Natasha raised her eyebrow, just slightly.

“No, you’re not,” she deadpanned. “You’re nervous.”

Peter shook his head. “I’m not —”

“It’s okay.” Natasha’s lips pulled weakly into a lop-sided smile. “I tend to have that effect on people.”

His shoulders dropped and relaxed, falling like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Now that the elephant in the room had been addressed, it was almost like he could breathe a little easier. Like the unmentionable had finally been mentioned.

“Yeah...” Peter rubbed shyly at the nape of his neck. “Just a little bit...”

A lot — a whole lot, actually. But that part could remain unmentioned.

Natasha’s barely-there smile grew into a tightly contained smirk.

“Lucky for you, the agenda for your training sessions begins with a set of preliminaries. The basics,” she explained, her arms folding neatly over her chest. “For right now, we’re just going to see how well you fight.” She shot him a wink that bled the stress out from the room.

Peter must have looked as dumbstruck as he felt, because he could have sworn he heard a small chuckle come from Natasha. It probably had something to do with his jaw being so open that his chin was practically cleaning the gym floors.

“That’s it?” he asked, perking up.

Natasha nodded, her eyes scanning Peter top-to-bottom, slowly but surely beginning to walk in a studious circle around him.

Peter remained absolutely still, going only so far as to arch a curious eyebrow.

“FRIDAY will be taking notes along the way, scanning your body figure and rendering it onto a program that will manipulate your stance, flexibility, range, balance — all things that I’m sure Roger’s will be studying like a hawk once he gets his hands on the tapes.” Natasha stopped, leaning heavily onto one foot as she said, “But for today, we spar.”

If someone had asked him what exactly he was expecting from these ‘training sessions’_, _Peter honestly couldn’t have given a straight answer. After all, he had never _trained _in his entire young life. Not unless he counted all the times after school when he’d hit up abandoned warehouses in Queens, screwing around on planks and roofs until the sun began to set. And even then, it wasn’t so much _training _as it was falling flat on his face repeatedly until he got the hang of his new abilities.

“Oh, that’s...” he chuckled under his breath, fingers falling away from the seams of his worn-out t-shirt. “That’s not bad at all.”

“Boot camp is next week.”

“What?”

The strong _WHOOSH _of air practically knocked Peter off his feet.

Oh, wait, no. That was Natasha trying to sucker-punch him in the head.

Peter looked up, eyes wide and full of shock from his grounded stance on the floor. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to realize those dexterity skills of his had kicked in – he had moved out of the way before he realized it.

Natasha looked down on him. She was definitely smirking now.

“Lesson number one,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just tried to knock out his wisdom teeth. “Never let your opponent distract you.”

Peter slowly stood from the floor, cautiously, eyebrows furrowed with confusion. “Wait, what if I hit you?”

_WHOOSH!_

Peter hadn’t been expecting a second punch. He dodged it nonetheless.

“Then you hit me.” Natasha guarded her face with both her fists, each tightly closed with knuckles prominent in view.

“I can’t – I can’t hit you.” Peter never thought he’d have to say those words out loud, and to the _Black Widow_ — what had his life become? “I mean, even without my strength, I was sorta raised not to hit a girl – woman! You’re a woman. Not a girl, woman – _OW__!_”

That punch landed squarely on his jaw.

When he looked back over at Natasha, she was smiling at him.

Peter frowned, rubbing at his face. That was mean. And..._totally awesome. _

“I hit you. Now you have to hit me.” Natasha bounced from foot to foot, her stance rigid and tense. “We have to be even, right?”

“Is that how this works? Is there a point system? No one’s ever really explained to me how sparring works. Do I have to – _OW,_ _sheesh__!_”

The bruise on the left side of his face now had a matching friend on the right side. Peter gripped his mouth loosely, working his jaw to ease the ache. Of course, his pride was hurting much more at the moment, but that didn’t need stated.

He was pretty sure Natasha could tell, anyway.

“Lesson number two,” Natasha moved quickly around him, her body movements eloquent and sharp, both precise and fluid, steadfast like a deadly dancer. “Less talking, more moving.”

The heels of her feet pranced on the floor. Her arms stayed stiff at her chest, and her fists were so tightly clutched, Peter could practically hear the muscles within her skin aching for release. Sparring or not, her aura was dense, harsh, determined.

Peter took a deep breath in, closing his eyes long enough to feel the air fill the capacity of his lungs.

He could do this.

He was Spider-man.

With the faintest whisper under his breath, he exhaled, “You can do this...”

And threw his first punch.

It was like instinct after that. One after another they came, each punch without thought, each side-step without question. Time moved in such a blur, right alongside his body. The recycled air of the gym hit harshly against his skin as he moved quickly, his small frame moving at a speed beyond what his mind could process.

Natasha’s aim was impeccable, but so was his evading. With each punch, each kick, with every hit she targeted towards him, he was dodging her attacks before they could ever land.

Just then, just when he thought he was ahead of the game —

Natasha grabbed his arm, yanking him towards her, trapping the back of his body against her front.

“You’re holding back.”

Peter gulped. The pressure stinging along his shoulder was sharp, and his breaths were coming in quick, dangerously close to panting. His chest suddenly felt heavy, too tight and constricted. Rapid, uneven puffs of air blew out from his mouth.

“I...I kinda have to.”

A knee jabbed into the small of his back, not a second after he got the words out. Peter stumbled forward, caught off guard.

“Not as much as you think you do.”

He spun around, just in time to dodge a high kick from Natasha’s foot. The ballerina slipper whizzed past his eyes like a fly buzzing in the air, the silk from the side of her toes brushing against his nose on the way down.

Holy crap.

The Black Widow was going to kick his ass.

‘_Going to!?’ _Peter ducked down to the side, only to immediately swing to his left. Her moves were coming in faster than he could dodge them. _‘She’s one centimeter away from pummeling you!’_

He had to do something. He couldn’t keep up at this pace, not for much longer. His lungs were burning with the need for air, for a break, for _anything. _

Dodging another punch, Peter cursed — _‘__This is not what I signed up for, this is so not what I signed up for!’_

Desperation flooded him. His insides swelled with panic — another fist swung at his jaw — hands shaking with adrenaline — another kick almost landed on his chest. Against all instincts, against everything he was raised to believe in, everything he was taught growing up, he did the only thing he could think of.

Peter punched Natasha.

The silence that came afterward was deafening.

“Did you just...” Natasha froze, her face wet with a sheen of sweat underneath the skylight of the gymnasium. “Did you just...tap me?”

Okay, so _punch _was a strong word. But _he _was strong! Peter shrugged sheepishly, his chest heaving harder than his mind worked to come up with a response.

“I...I sorta —”

No time.

Natasha swung her fists like a madwoman, one after another, left and right, right and left —

She wasn’t going easy on him, not anymore. Not now that he was failing to live up to the standards of an Avenger — or so he was telling himself. Now not only was the Black Widow was going to kick his ass, she was going to do it while _pissed off._ Super strength or not, he had a feeling this was going to hurt.

He had to keep dodging, keep evading. While Peter certainly didn’t trust himself to fight back, he could at least avoid the fight. He had been good at that since middle school — he almost laughed at himself, only to tumble on his backside from another attack.

Basic techniques he could fend off, the simple throws and kicks he could sidestep. Problem was, Natasha didn’t fight basic. No, not a skilled assassin like her. The longer this went on, the fancier she got. And Peter’s spider-sense could only get him so far.

Natasha lunged forward, leaping off the floor with impressive agility. Two fully extended legs soared through the air, mere inches from wrapping around his neck before Peter swerved out of the way.

She landed on her backside with a _THUD, _so loud it muffled her grunt.

Peter rolled onto his backside with an emerging grin.

“Oh!” He knew he shouldn’t sound so excited, but it was hard not to be. “I remembered that one!”

It was like deja vu. Really, really badly timed deja vu. Climbing back to his feet, Peter shrugged it off – whatever worked, right?

Natasha was already running towards him by the time he regained his balance. Definitely time to use whatever worked.

She bent low, going straight for his legs, her head tucked low to her chin. A cold chill slithered up his spine just as the memory can rushing back to him. He jumped high in the air – higher than any average person – and she slipped right on past him.

“Holy cow!” Peter couldn’t help but laugh now, all effort in hiding his joy a lost cause. “I remember that one, too!”

Natasha spun around, her eyebrows knitted tightly together. “How do you —”

High off the adrenaline and full of excitement, Peter sprinted towards her, falling to his knees just as he came in contact with Natasha’s leg. He pulled one foot out from the other, another _THUD _vibrating against the gym floors.

The confused shock that washed across her face was enough to have Peter grinning each to ear.

“Lesson number one, right?” Peter slowly stood up, offering her a hand as he did.

There was a pause, the briefest moment of stillness that lingered between them. Natasha eyed him carefully, almost cautiously.

Peter’s grin didn’t dim a watt.

A least not until Natasha flipped up from the floor, quick to latch onto Peter’s open and exposed hand.

It was like second nature that Peter ducked to the side, Natasha’s fingernails just barely scraping against the skin of his arm.

“Ha-ha! Yes!” He shouted, the words bouncing off the walls. “Thank you incredibly selective and totally inconvenient memory! Man, if only I could remember World History as easily as this.”

“Remember — hold up,” Natasha panted for breath, signaling a time out motion with both her hands. “How are you blocking these moves? Is this your freaky sixth sense thing or something?”

Peter’s grin lessened a fraction. “Yeah...something...”

“No,” Natasha insisted, slapping away the dust on her legs with aggressive force. “Not something. How?”

A harsh feeling grabbed at his gut, twisting it tightly into a ball that made him dizzy with nausea. The way Natasha was staring at him, eyes narrowed, green pupils piercingly sharp with the need for an answer — he didn’t like it. He especially didn’t like remembering the other set of green eyes that drilled a hole in his memory, just as Russian, just as stern.

“Uh, well, you know,” Peter stammered, the back of his hand wiping away dripping sweat from his forehead. “I’ve...I’ve seen you fight before.”

Natasha curtly shook her head. “Not like this.”

Peter opened his mouth to respond.

Nothing.

He had nothing.

The best he could do was suck in air that he so badly needed, more and more by the second. Whatever was twisting his stomach into a pretzel only got worse, an inescapable feeling of something he couldn’t describe growing bigger than what his small frame could handle.

Natasha stared at him, confused eyes directly meeting his.

“You’ve never seen these moves before.” She paused, head tilting slightly to the side. “Have you?”

The tension of two people sparring together had quickly been replaced with a different kind of atmosphere. A buzzing electricity that hung in the air, so intense it that could be felt down into their fingertips.

Peter fidgeted with those fingertips, fighting off that feeling of discomfort. His nails dug deep into the center of his palm. “It’s, uh, it’s similar...to someone else. That I fought. Before.”

“Who?” She didn’t waste a beat.

Peter’s eyes wandered everywhere in the gym – ceiling, walls, basketball hoops – everywhere but where Natasha stood, merely a few feet away from him. He was sure she noticed. It was hard not to, her focus unbreakable.

“Well, you know...” Peter trailed off.

Natasha lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t make assumptions based on insinuations.”

Her voice was firm, unwavering and full of authority.

Peter let out the smallest puff of air, a weak sigh at best. His eyes closed briefly and bit on his lower lip.

Crap.

He _really _didn’t sign up for this today.

“Back when I, um...” Peter exhaled sharply, his foot tapping nervously on the gym floor. “In the creepy undersea bunker thing...when I fought...you know, that Dmitri guy. He kind of...sort of...fought the same way?”

Peter wasn’t sure why he phrased it as a question, especially when it was a bona fide fact. The real question was why his brain was plucking out this information when clearly he didn’t want to be thinking about it, remembering it, and especially _talking _about it.

He looked down to his feet, the toe of his shoe leaving scuff marks on the glossy hardwood floors.

“Kinda kicked my ass, too. And you’d totally be doing the same right now if I wasn’t remembering some of this. I don’t even know why I’m remembering this? It’s just kinda coming back to me and – it doesn’t matter, stupid stuff, we can keep spar —”

Peter looked up, seeing only empty space in front of him.

“Natasha?” His solitary voice bounced off the walls of the empty gym. “Hello?”

Peter looked around, left and right, front and back. Nothing, no one.

The only sign of Natasha’s departure were the double doors far ahead, gently swinging back and forth.

* * *

“I’m not too sure I understand the...point to all of this.”

The many gray Lego pieces scattered along Peter’s bed nearly matched the same gray that lined along Vision’s synthetic, vibranium head. He held one piece in particular, holding it close to his eyes, the plastic squeezed tightly between his finger and thumb.

Peter arched an eyebrow at the same time that he snapped two Lego’s together.

“There is no point,” he backtracked as quickly as the words came out. “I mean, there _is _a point. It’s to finish the set.”

The empty Lego box sat near the top of his bed by his pillows. Vision stood idly at the footrest, the very same spot he had been standing at for nearly thirty minutes now — Peter’s invitation for him to sit was dismissed on the notion that he preferred to stand. He always did.

The wall between their rooms may very well be a curtain.

Slowly, Vision turned away from the small piece of plastic and looked over where the box sat, discarded. The cardboard was worn-down and weakened, ripped in many places, held together by multiple pieces of duct tape. The design printed on the front was faded, a clear indication of age and use. It told him nothing.

“And what exactly is this...set?” Vision tilted his head to the side, perplexed.

Peter didn’t look away from the task at hand. Two more pieces snapped together. “It’s a ship.”

“A ship?” Vision still held the single Lego piece between his fingers, studying it as if it held all the answers to the universe.

“Yeah, a ship. Like a boat.” Peter wasn’t phased by the questions, continuing to assemble plastic pieces like it was second nature. “Well, you can’t tell it’s a ship right now. It’s like, uh...like those coastguard boats? The ones that go out to sea. You’ll be able to tell once it’s finished.”

His hands blindly rummaged around for more pieces, almost pulling at his bed comforter until he found the pile he was looking for. Six-by-four plates, right next to the pile of two-by-three bricks. Everything was sorted exactly how he needed it to be.

He had been at this for a while now.

He had no clue where Natasha ran off too.

“Then what?”

Peter blinked at that. He paused for the first time since he had started his impromptu Lego distraction, looking up at Vision with furrowed brows.

“What?”

Vision slowly and gently handed the single Lego piece back over to Peter, who took claim of it with the same sluggish speed. “Then what?”

The piece was discarded in the pile of other Lego’s, and Peter could only shrug. “It’ll be finished.”

Vision intense stare told Peter that unlike his Lego pieces, what he said hadn’t _clicked. _Sheesh, where was Wanda when he needed her? She seemed to get through to Vision better than all of them combined.

“That’s it,” he needlessly added.“That’s...the point.”

Vision continued to eye him warily. Peter matched the stare, unsure of what else to say or do. He never exactly had to explain the art of Lego’s to anyone before. This was...well, this was new.

“You spend hours of your time, of which is considered limited for your species...” Vision paused, head craning further to the side, “...putting together pieces of plastic in such a mundane manner. And this is what you consider...fun?”

Well, jeeze, like _that _didn’t sting a little bit.

“Yeah?” Peter shrugged, sheepishly grabbing a handful of pieces from his large dump pile. He kept his head low, hoping that the redness tinting his cheeks would go unseen — he knew it wouldn’t. “It’s – you know, it’s more than that...too. It’s kinda, like, mentally stimulating. Gives me a task to focus on. Stuff like that?”

The bottom of his ship was finally starting to look like a ship. Or at least slightly recognizable as a boat-like-figure. Vision seemed to notice it as well, a difference in his oddly-sentient expression unfolding across his features.

“Hm.”

The hum echoed the bedroom.

Slowly, Vision leaned forward, reaching for the smallest piece in one of the many piles. With the gentleness one might have in handling a newborn, he snapped the piece along the foundation of Lego’s already assembled. It made a _click _as it took its place alongside the others.

“I may need to study this activity further before I can fully understand it.”

There was another hum, this one somehow more contemplative than the last.

Peter cautiously picked up another Lego piece, pausing just briefly before handing it over to Vision. He eyed it with intense concentration before slowly, gently, he grabbed it between two fingers. And the process repeated itself.

_KNOCK_

_KNOCK_

Peter shot his head over to the entrance of the bedroom.

“Am I interrupting something?” Natasha’s knuckles still pressed firmly against the door-frame, as if she planned to knock again if needed.

“God, no.” The words fell right out of Peter’s mouth. For a brief second he felt a sting of remorse, only to realize Vision hadn’t caught onto his relief. In fact, he was still preoccupied studying the Lego pieces, even as Natasha entered the room.

A beat of silence followed as she subtly walked closer to them, her ballerina slippers quiet against the padding of carpet below her feet. Peter noticed that she hadn’t even changed since earlier this afternoon – what had it been, five some hours ago?

She let Vision assemble one more piece before audibly clearing her throat.

“Vis,” Natasha spoke up, “can I have a second with Peter?”

Vision straightened his back, posture somehow sharper than either of theirs combined.

“Of course. I’ll just be...” His thumb pointed awkwardly to the right, his head twitching slightly as he contemplated saying more. Ultimately, it was left at that. He phased through the wall like he was never there to begin with.

Natasha arched an eyebrow high. “Is he still —?”

“_Yes,_” Peter answered a little too quickly. “All the time. I have no privacy here.”

Natasha chuckled faintly, her eyes fixated down below where Peter sat crossed-legged on his bed.

“Mind if I sit here?” she asked, a simple head nod gesturing to the general vicinity of the mattress.

“Yeah! Of-of course, here, I just...” Peter stammered as he looked over the Lego’s covering his bed-sheets. No doubt Natasha was eyeing the same thing. Ugh, _of course _she’d walk in to see this. Earlier today she was training him as a soon-to-be-Avenger, and now she caught him playing with Lego’s — _‘This is why everyone __treats __you __like __a kid, P__eter__!’_

With one panicked move, his arm swept everything into a giant pile, organization lost in the moment. It took three more quick sweeps of his open palm to gather what few suborn pieces remained. He smoothed out the wrinkles from the comforter and gave it one quick pat.

When Peter looked up, she was already sitting on the other side of the bed.

Huh.

It turned out he _could _reach new levels of embarrassment. He was learning all sorts of things today.

A moment of silence stretched between them. Peter gripped idly at his sweatpants near his ankle while Natasha sat quietly towards the edge of the bed, staring off at the wall that Vision has phased through. Peter had a feeling that the vanishing act from their common household sentient being wasn’t what lingered on her mind.

“You’re a smart kid, Peter.”

The sudden observation all but verified his hunch.

“Thanks,” Peter suddenly frowned. “I think?”

Natasha adjusted herself slightly on the bed so that her one leg was tucked tightly underneath herself. “I’m sure you read up on all the declassified documents that were leaked online after SHIELD’s initial collapse.”

Peter’s brow creased deeply with confusion. Things were taking an odd turn, and he wasn’t sure what to think. How did a training session lead to _this conversation?_

“I may have...skimmed them...or something.” That was a lie. He and Ned practically studied them when they first came out. But c’mon, who _didn’t _want to know all about what SHIELD actually did? Not to mention details about the aliens from The Battle of New York, all things the media kept hush-hush.

It just so happened that information on who The Black Widow _really _was ended up in that bunch of declassified documents

Ned’s response was, of course, _‘That is so badass!’ _

Peter wasn’t too sure what to think, not at first, not for a while. In the end, his opinion of her didn’t change. She was still an Avenger in his books, someone who helped save not only the city but the whole _world _multiple times. That more than earned his respect.

Peter swallowed past the dryness that coated his throat. “Listen, about early...I didn’t mean to upset —”

“Back when I worked for the KGB, I made connections with a lot of different people,” Natasha seamlessly interrupted. “People I didn’t like, not even then, especially not now. People I would have happily shot dead if they wouldn’t have shot me first.”

The air in the room had somehow grown thicker while Natasha spoke, her words eerily quiet while still remaining strong, tense. For the first time since she had sat down, her head dipped low and her gaze wandered away.

“Dmitri Smerdyakov was one of those people.”

Peter’s eyes grew wide. He perked up instantly, nearly knocking a few Lego’s off the bed in the process. “Whoa…you knew him? Like, _knew him _knew him? How? When —”

Natasha shook her head. “The minor details aren’t necessary. You’re still young, you deserve to have some of your innocence persevered.”

Slowly and with a sense of uncertainty, Peter slumped back down, hands folding neatly in the space between his crossed legs. Natasha had barely moved an inch, chin so low it nearly met with her SHIELD t-shirt. He couldn’t help but notice that she looked...well, she looked _something. _

Peter had quickly learned that with Natasha, she almost never showed emotion. Always a blank canvas, always neutral.

This wasn’t neutral.

“Is that why...” he trailed off, unsure of what exactly to say. “Did it bother you when I mentioned him?”

They had never really talked about it, him and Natasha anyway. The undersea thing, the whole his-death-was-faked-by-a-crazy-Russian-psychopath thing. He knew she was there, that she was a part of the team that came to save him. Yet when it came to the actual rescue part of it all, Mr. Stark made sure that the details were kept short and sweet.

The more Peter thought about it, the more he began to realize how little he actually knew. His paranoid side felt like they were hiding something from him, especially with the sudden investigation into OsCorp. Which he also knew nothing about. It just felt like something wasn’t right, like things wasn’t officially done and over with. At least not for him.

But maybe that was because he had been thinking about it so much lately. Or more accurately, trying _not_ to think about it.

“We trained together,” she quietly answered, just loud enough to break him out of his thoughts. “The KGB taught him most of what he knew. I taught him the rest. We’ll leave it at that.”

It had been months now since the whole ordear, and Peter had absolutely no idea that _The Chameleon _was anything more than a spy who had snuck into Stark Industries, as per what Mr. Stark told him. If Natasha knew Dmitri, maybe he wasn’t being so paranoid after all. Maybe there was more to it all.

But if that were the case, why weren’t they telling him?

Peter shifted his weight slightly, the Lego’s nearby rustling at the movement.

The toys on his bed practically answered the question for him.

At the same time, Natasha let out a short, sharp sigh. “Dmitri was an..._evil _person. And I don’t ever use that word lightly. He always had been. He was never crafted into who he became, he was simply just that. Born it. Died it.” She looked up, her eyes locking onto Peter’s so suddenly it took him aback. “So I want you to know, if you have _any _shred of guilt for what happened in that bunker...don’t.”

Peter had never seen Natasha look so...intense_. _At least not at him, not directly in his eyes. It was enough to get his heart racing and his palms sweaty, and he was sure if he looked in a mirror, his skin would be flushed pink. He knew her intensity wasn’t directed at him — no, he knew it was directed at someone else entirely. But that didn’t stop the rage of anxious emotions from swimming through his core.

Honestly, the entire conversation was starting to bother him. He wasn’t too sure why.

Natasha drew her gaze away, looking at the wall ahead once more. “The bastard deserved to die. It should have happened much sooner.”

Peter could tell there was more story behind her words. He waited to see if it would come, only to receive silence instead.

Slightly uncomfortable, he cleared his throat, unable to swallow enough to rid the itchy dryness that coated his tongue.

“You don’t think...I mean, you don’t think there was a chance he could become...good again?” The way his voice squeaked towards the end had Peter cringing, wanting nothing more than to hide in his closet, run out of the room, or just time-travel back where this conversation hadn’t started in the first place. He wiped his hands against his pants, hoping to dry the sudden bout of profuse sweating that he couldn’t explain.

Natasha’s lips tugged slightly upward.

“It’s really great that you see such good potential in everyone. Really, it is. I wish I could still see people the same way.” For someone who always remained so neutral, Peter swore he heard a hint of sadness in Natasha’s tone. “In my line of work, we’ve been trained for the opposite. To see any inkling of a chance someone could have a dark side.”

Peter wasn’t sure how to respond. Natasha saved him from having to.

“There’s a saying we have in Russia. _V tihom omute cherti vodyats__a. _It means — in a quiet lagoon, devils dwell.” Her weight shifted noticeably on the bed, and the brief moment of silence broke with her deep, pressed exhale. “Sometimes, even those who smile the brightest may have the darkest intent.”

Peter’s eyes fell to his lap around the same time Natasha had turned to look at him. He couldn’t be bothered to hold her gaze, not as his heart continued to beat like a drum beneath his rib-cage, or as all the saliva seemingly left his mouth only to perspire through his skin.

He knew at this point she was talking about other things, yet he couldn’t let go of what he heard — _Dmitri, bunker, death. _It rang in his ears like a loud, shrill bomb. _Death. Death. Death. _

“I found that out the hard way, Peter,” Natasha’s voice muffled underneath his pulse, pounding laboriously in his ears. “I don’t want you to have to do the same.”

The vibrations buzzing against his thigh quickly tore him from his sunken thoughts. Peter fumbled for his cell phone, swiping through his password to open his text messages.

“Right. Uh, right, totally,” he said thinly, barely looking up from his cell phone.“I’ll...I’ll keep that in mind.”

There was a lot Peter didn’t understand. Politics was a big one, how to talk to girls was an issue he felt would never go away But lately, he was overwhelmed with confusion on why the smallest things were making him feel so uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable, downright panicked. Anxious. Totally not himself. A hurricane of discomfort trapped him in a place he really, really didn’t want to be.

He was good if he stepped away. This same thing happened before, at OsCorp when he was with Harry. He was good once he got some space. He just needed some space.

“I actually got a...thing, I need to do,” Peter stammered, quickly getting up from the bed in a way that split many Lego’s on the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up. “But uh, thanks...for the talk. I think.”

He was already halfway to the door when Natasha spoke up.

“Peter.”

He fought the urge to make a run for it, bolt out the door, claim he never heard her when approached about his hasty departure.

He respected her too much to do that.

So his bare feet spun around to face her, his cell phone still clutched tightly in his sweating hand – so, so sweaty.

Natasha sat still on the bed, her gaze steely towards him. “I knew Dmitri for a long time. I know how he can get inside your head. If you need someone to talk to —”

“I really gotta go,” Peter blurted out, pointing to the doorway behind him. “But seriously, thanks, Natasha. This was, uh — fun!”

Peter didn’t waste any time beating himself up over that one; there wasn’t a doubt he’d be cringing at it all night once his thoughts were free to himself again. And he certainly didn’t wait around for a response from Natasha. His feet were already pounding against the ground as he ran down the hallway, out of the room before she could even try to call him back.

It was for the best. The sooner he could get away from this, the better he’d feel. She’d understand, right? Maybe had he explained that to her, he could have left a little less abruptly. Maybe had he stuck around, she’d be willing to talk about it with him.

But it didn’t matter, he was already gone.

And Natasha still sat in his room, eyeing the partially assembled Lego set with vague curiosity. Maybe had he stuck around, she would have asked him why he felt compelled to make, of all things, a lifeboat.

* * *

The blue glow of a splintered cellphone screen reflected across Harry’s face, almost as bright as the fire-pit that crackled behind him. Wooden logs burning and splitting apart had been the only noise to settle in the large, open-spaced den.

It had been quiet. Too quiet.

Peter fiddled with the pages to his textbooks, trying not to let his nerves show as he watched Harry scroll through the cell phone — _his_ cell phone. Only half a minute could have passed by, a minute at most, and somehow it felt like thirty minutes – an hour, two hours – god it had been too long.

And just when he thought the silence would drive him insane,

“She likes you,” Harry finally said, a smile pulling tightly on his lips.

Peter laughed. “No, she doesn’t!”

“She totally likes you, man,” Harry insisted, his eyes never looking away from the phone. His thumb kept scrolling along the touch-screen, his back resting so casually against the armrest of the sofa that his textbooks, laid out on his lap, were dangerously close to falling on the floor.

Peter stammered for a response, adjusting himself on the opposite side of the couch. “How are you even getting that from —”

“Trust me,” Harry finally looked up, grin wide enough to show his gum-line. “MJ would _not _be texting you this much if she didn’t like you. And the smiley faces? Not to mention the winkey faces — chick digs you.”

Harry winked, charismatically enough that Peter felt a twitch of his own smile. He kept it at bay, reaching across the couch to snatch back his phone.

“C’mon, you can’t decipher emotion from emojis!”

“That’s literally what they are, Pete!” Harry laughed harder, holding the phone high above his head. “Why do you think they call them _emojis? _Emotion is literally part of the acronym!”

How they got on this topic was utterly beyond Peter, and he _seriously _thought showing Harry all of MJ’s texts would shut him up about it. With the amount of times she called him nerd, dweeb, loser — there was simply no way someone could see that as her _liking _him.

Admitting defeat, Peter slumped back down against his side of the couch, the armrest digging slightly into his back.

“Whatever. We’re just friends.” Peter’s dismissal was met with a look of such skepticism by Harry that if his eyebrows had arched any higher, they’d have reached the cathedral ceilings of the den. Peter rolled his eyes in return. “Seriously. She’s my friend. That’s it.”

Still holding Peter’s phone, Harry waved it around to make a point. “You say that like you might want things to change.”

The warmth spreading across his cheeks was enough for Peter to look away, giving a scoff so heavily coated with flustered uncertainty that not even he could tell what he felt anymore. Of course, that seemed to be the ongoing theme with his life lately. A certain socially distant, equally nerdy friend of his just so happened to be lumped into that ‘_feelings unknown’ _pile.

But wait — Peter shook his head — exactly how did they start talking about that? One moment they were writing the outline for his history class essay, and the next thing Peter knew, Harry had managed to convince him to look through his text history with MJ. _‘__E__xamination __of evidence,__’ _as he put it.

‘_That’s Harry for ya,_’ Peter thought, finding his once discarded highlighter underneath his leg and twiddling it between his fingers. _‘Guy can charm almost anyone into doing anything. Must be an Osborn thing.’ _It was moments like these that made him super grateful he started deleting any text messages that talked about his _‘night gig’, _as May would call it.

“I dunno,” Peter finally shrugged, blowing out a sigh. “I mean, she’s super busy with school. And I’m swamped with all this superhe — uh...superconducting my...shop...class project. Really busy with that. And Decathlon and...and you know...junior year. Busy stuff.”

Harry closed his textbooks with a loud _thump, _stretching his legs out so they nearly reached Peter’s side of the sofa.

“Yeah, man, it’s so busy. I mean, the only girlfriend I had was freshman year and things didn’t last, she said classes were stressing her out like whoa. I get it.” Harry tapped his sock-clad toes playfully against Peter’s hip. “But if you ever decide to take the leap…she digs you, too.”

Peter rolled his eyes for what felt like the tenth time tonight. “She does _not, _Harry.”

“Really?” Harry sat up straighter, his thump swiping rapidly on the cracked screen of Peter’s phone. “Exhibit A, text message from last week.”

“Harry!” Peter jumped forward, the redness tinging his face now solely from aggravation.

Harry laughed smugly as he went on to read the text, dodging each of Peter’s attempts, going so far as to climb half-way off the sofa in the process. “Hey dweeb, if you’re going to ditch out on second period at least —”

A sudden string of multiple _dings _emitted from the same phone they were playing tug-of-war wover.

“Aw damn,” Harry paused, his laughter dying off as he handed the cell back to Peter. “Wanda’s texting you. Says she’s outside with the car.”

Peter laughed softly, typing a quick response on his phone before pocketing it away. “Holy cow, has it really been three hours already?”

“I guess time flies when you’re studying up on Battle of Leyte Gulf.” Harry stacked his textbooks on the coffee table nearby, flashing a brief, halfhearted smile.

“Something like that,” Peter muttered, gathering his books inside his backpack. Another highlighter rolled out from the sofa cushions and he quickly stuffed it with the others, looking around to make sure he hadn’t left anything else behind. “Thanks again, Harry. For helping me out with this.”

Harry dismissed him with a wave. “Hey, anytime, pal. Especially when it works out like this — didn’t know you were only forty minutes away from me on the weekends. Hell, I had no idea you scored room and board up at the friggin Avengers facility. What’s _that _like?”

Peter closed his book-bag so suddenly that the zipper broke right off. His eyes went wide, his fingers shaking slightly as he rushed to stuff the broken zipper into his jean pocket.

“Uh, you know...” he stammered, swinging his bag over his shoulder. "It’s...big. Lots of security. Kinda —”

“Harrison?” The sound of a heavy door shutting was drowned out by the voice that followed. “Is that you in the study?”

Peter quickly turned from the noise nearby over to Harry, who had easily turned five shades whiter than before. His suave composure all but seemed lost in the rush of the moment.

“Shit, dad’s home,” he muttered, shoveling his textbooks aside as he stumbled off from his kneeling position on the floor. “You might wanna —”

“Ah, we have guests,” Norman smiled from the doorway, taking in the room with slow, steady perception. “Harrison, you didn’t tell me we’d have a guest tonight.”

Peter looked between the two. A bout of nerves bundled uncomfortably in his stomach, both his hands clutching the strap to his backpack tighter than he knew the fabric could handle. For a moment, only the fireplace filled the space between them, crackling embers lighting up the room with diminishing soot.

“I was helping Pete study for a big project we have,” Harry finally managed, audibly clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be back by now.”

Norman let out a hum, deep and gruff within his throat. The sleeves to his white dress shirt were cuffed up to his forearms, and without ever breaking eye contact with Harry, he began to roll them down.

Naturally, Peter’s eyes followed the movement, unsure of where else to look or what else to say. He stayed quiet, even as he watched while Norman began to carefully, gingerly rub at the back of his hand.

Peter creased his brow — the skin looked burnt, hot pink, and blistered slightly around the edges. It looked fresh, skin tissue angry and sore, as if it had just happened. Peter titled his head to the side, eyes squinting slightly.

“My calendar cleared up for the evening. For the best,” Norman mentioned, rolling down his sleeve just far enough that it covered the back of his hand. He forced a tight smile, locking eyes with Peter across the room. “Mr. Parker, pleasure to see you again.”

The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck felt as if they were knives digging into his skin. He tensed up, doing everything he possibly could to ignore the twist of unease that constricted each and every one of his muscles.

There was nothing to be nervous about.

He swallowed, hard. _‘__Nothing to be nervous about...’_

“Uh, you too...” Peter croaked, his voice trailing off into a quiet, “...sir.”

The inner reminder, chanted in his head like a prayer, did nothing for his faltering composure. No matter how many times he echoed the same thought over and over again – _‘__Nothing to be nervous about, nothing to be nervous about’ – _there was no shaking the feeling of rising, bubbling, staggeringly strong anxiety. He couldn’t even blame it on first-impression jitters.

No, this was something more. Something different. And yet, he couldn’t pin it on anything other than the way Norman looked at him. Just like before in his office at OsCorp.

Straight in the eyes, unfaltering, unrelenting.

Peter looked away, even as Norman smiled and spoke.

“Please,” he chuckled lightly, shifting weight from one foot to the other. “You’re a friend of Harrison’s, you can call me Norman.”

“Sure thing...” Peter could hear the fabric to the strap of his bag splitting apart. “Mr. Osborn.”

Norman shook his head, the laughter from deep in his chest somehow not meeting the smile that pulled at his lips.

“Look at this kid,” he said to Harry. “So polite.”

Harry chuckled tensely, a bemused smile writing an expression on his face that could be read from miles away.

Peter dipped his head down low, avoiding direct eye contact with either of them.

There were few times in his life that a room had felt so weird, so off-putting. Like the air had grown so thick with tension he found it difficult to breathe.

For whatever reason, standing in a room with Harry and his dad was one of those moments.

Norman stuffed both hands inside his pockets, glancing at Harry, eyes landing on Peter. “Studying, you said?”

Peter nodded a little too vigorously. “Yeah, just, uh….yeah.”

_God, _it was his first Decathlon championship all over again. Suddenly unable to articulate even the most basic of words, forming a sentence a skill he seemed to have lost in the time it took to blink his eyes. He handled himself better around Liz’s dad, and that guy turned out to be a crazed super-villain for crying out loud!

‘_Nothing to be nervous about. Nothing to be nervous about...’_

“Good. Pleased to hear it,” Norman remarked. “A young intelligent as yourself needs to keep their brain sharp, crisp. We require all the underage interns at OsCorp to keep their grades high above average, or else lose their spot with the company. I would assume Stark Industries does the same, no?”

“That’s...why I’m here,” Peter choked out, nodding. “Gotta...focus on those grades.”

The look Harry gave him was enough to get Peter’s attention, a smirk so wide it could be seen even in his peripheral vision. Hey, it wasn’t a _total _lie. Peter’s lips tugged slightly at the corner and Harry rolled his eyes, his grin never breaking.

“Well, that settles it then” Norman clapped his hands together abruptly, both their heads snapping over at the sound. “A hard night of studying merits a reward proper for growing teenage boys.” He briefly glanced at his wrist-watch. “Dinner for three. I’ll call the driver up and we can head to the steakhouse.”

Peter’s eyes widened, all amusement zapped within an instant.

“I’d-I’d love to, Mr. Osborn.” He shook his head quickly, and again a little too vigorously. “But my ride is actually waiting for me outside —”

“Well, invite them up too!” Norman had already turned around, wallet in hand and five steps closer to the doorway. “Have they ever had Kobe steak? They will tonight.”

“Uh, dad,” Harry spoke up, his voice quiet and dry. “Peter’s really gotta get back.”

There was a pause on Norman’s part. His legs remained still while his body twisted around, eyes only fixated on Harry in the same way they’d fixate on Peter, staring silently for what felt like an eternity.

Ultimately he relaxed, a disappointed smile stretching across his mouth.

“What a shame.” Norman held two placating hands in the air. “Okay, fair enough. I’ll try and prehend this brilliant mind another evening. Until then, Mr. Parker.”

Peter felt the hand reach out before he ever saw it. He wasn’t sure how that was possible — he couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. But he could have sworn he felt it, like a hot ether cutting through the space between them. It was stronger than the vibrations that tore up his neck, pulsating tingles boring up into his skull, distracting him from thinking the most basics of thoughts.

It felt palpable, flammable.

It felt wrong.

And yet how many other times could he say that? Why was he getting so upset about every little thing lately, why was he relying so much on trusting feelings that he couldn’t defend, couldn’t explain? Why was he running away from conversations with _Avengers, _people he considered to be his idols? People who did nothing but help him, hell, they _saved _him.

Natasha deserved better than that.

Norman stretched a wide smile, waiting patiently for him to shake his hand.

No, this had gotten way out of control. Peter looked down – it was only a hand, nothing special about it. Nothing to worry about.

Without thinking another thought, or wasting another second, Peter leaned forward.

“Good night, sir.” Peter shook his hand once, twice, three times in total before letting go.

The feeling of calefaction simmering in the air dissipated no more than a second after.

He practically sighed in relief. _‘Nothing to be nervous about.’ _

Norman gave a sharp nod and faint smile, his goodbye spoken only in expression.

Only once he had turned around did Harry step forward. “Should I get ready to leave, dad, or…?”

“Another night, Harrison.” Norman had already stepped out of the den, his voice heard down from the hallway. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather right now.”

Far in the distance, a door closed shut. Its echo seemed to carry weight with it.

Peter looked over at Harry, the once tense expression of stress overtaken with a mixture of frustration and sadness.

“Right,” Harry rolled his eyes. Shaking his head, he leaned down to the coffee table, one by one picking up his textbooks and muttering tightly contained words underneath his breath. His attempt at being quiet was bested by his exasperation, nearly as hot as the fireplace still lit behind him.

Peter dropped his head low, the fancy rug underneath his feet easier to look at than the sullen face of disappointment next to him. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why Harry was upset. It had even become clear why Harry never wanted people around his father.

Peter vaguely shook his head. He had really hoped things would have gotten better since they were kids. It made no sense to him, how someone could treat their own child that way. It was as if Norman had become...well, it was like Norman was Harry’s boss. It wasn’t right. Mr. Stark was practically his boss and treated him with more respect than that. Not to mention —

His backpack nearly dropped to the ground, what little thread remaining finally torn under the pressure of his enhanced strength.

Shit.

Peter quickly caught the bag before it could fall, holding it close to his chest with both hands, eyes wider than saucers.

ShitShitShit —

“Do you have a bathroom I could use real quick before I…?”

Harry looked up from the coffee table, clearing his throat with a weak smile.

“Yeah, it’s across the hall.” Standing tall with arms full of textbooks, Harry chuckled a thin laugh. “Take a left, and don’t go three stories up this time.”

Peter nodded, clutching his bag against his chest like a newborn baby, desperate to hide the seams of his strap that had all but exploded into pieces of fabric. The_ last _thing he needed right now was for Harry to ask how a brand new backpack just ripped apart like cotton candy.

At this rate though, if he squeezed the damn thing any harder, pages of _American Revolution _were going to come flying out.

“Right, yeah, of course.” Peter flashed a hint of a smile, awkwardly carrying his broken book-bag to the bathroom.

He shut the door behind him with his backside – a little too loudly at that – and immediately drooped the bag into the bathroom sink.

“_Crap!” _Peter hissed, his hands frantically tugging into his hair. This was exactly why he didn’t like owning new things – he just got this backpack last week!

He quickly examined it, pulling away pieces of foam and fabric to better see the damage. The strap was obligated, far beyond May’s sewing skills and whatever he could manage with hot glue in shop class. There was no beating around the bush; the bag was a goner.

“Ugh, Mr. Stark’s going to kill me,” Peter muttered, massaging the temples of his forehead with a groan.

There was no way Mr. Stark could find out that he broke his book-bag with his own hands. This was just humiliating; he’d have to come up with something better. It was so much easier when May was buying his backpacks, at least then he could just tell her he needed a new one and she’d go with it.

Ugh, this _ sucked. _

Maybe there was a way he could fix this. Peter dug deep into the pockets of the bag, eventually finding what he was looking for – ah, his web-shooters. A little bit of good-’o-faithful web-fluid should do the trick.

Hopefully.

Maybe.

Peter kept his eyes on the door the entire time he wrapped the strap in sticky fluid, careful not to be caught. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time someone barged in on him while he was in the bathroom. Or while doing Spider-man related activities. It’d be his luck the two would finally combine.

Quickly waving his hand to make sure it dried, Peter went to test the weight when —

“Oh, gross,” he tossed the backpack into the sink with disgust. “What _is _that?”

Peter quickly grabbed a few wads of toilet paper, desperately smearing it against the side of the bag. It looked like some kind of oil had gotten onto it – or was that slime? Whatever it was, no matter how many times Peter rubbed and wiped, it wasn’t coming off.

_Of course _it wasn’t coming off.

“Oh come on!” Peter huffed, each crumbled wad of toilet paper coming back clean and dry. For all he knew, it was a stain that had been there for days. Yet the black spot looked wet and shiny, almost saturating the pocket of his week-old Jansport.

Seriously, he just got this thing last week. Peter scrubbed frantically; Mr. Stark was going to kill him if he couldn’t last one week with a new backpack.

Just then, his phone _pinged. _

And _pinged _and _pinged _—

“Okay, Wanda, okay!” he tossed the clean toilet paper into the trash bin, leaving the oily mess on his bag. Maybe once he got home, some web dissolvent would lift the stain.

Peter grimaced, tossing the one good strap over his shoulder. From the looks of it, WD-40 was more likely to do the trick.

He’d take care of it later. For right now, he needed to get out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most people do slow burns for romances. Me? I do slow burns for symbiotes and whump.
> 
> Alright, but for real. A lot of ya’ll have been wondering if Peter’s already been possessed by the symbiote or will be soon. Chapter 8: Infected will do a great job of answering that question for you.


	8. Infected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wondered what his last thoughts would be. He tried to think of Aunt May, Ned and MJ, the Avengers and Mr. Stark...he tried to focus on anything besides the blood, the copper smell that burned his nose. Besides the pain. Besides…
> 
> Besides... he... he...
> 
> He didn't want to die.  
  
He doesn't want to die.  
  
Please...please, _please. _  
  
_I don't want to die._

“Kid!”

Peter snapped his head up, jerking so hard that he nearly dropped his phone. Only by the luck of his sticky fingers did he catch it, mere centimeters before it crashed onto the floor.

Thank God, because he didn’t think his screen could handle another crack.

With one fluid motion, Tony wheeled his chair across the workshop, sliding seamlessly over to where Peter sat.

“I don’t ask for things more than twice,” he deadpanned, holding out an open palm.

Peter blinked, the wires in his head about as disconnected as the wires laid out along Mr. Stark’s workbench. There were two things he noticed – Mr. Stark’s annoyed expression, teetering dangerously close to the look of frustration, and his fingers that wiggled in back and forth in a _gimme _motion.

Sheesh, what did he want now? Wasn’t he just working on —

“Right!” Peter scrambled through the clutter on the table, pushing aside pieces and parts, screws and nails; he shoved aside everything littered in front of him to find the tool needed. It ended up buried at the very bottom of the mess — just his luck.

“Monkey-wrench!” he excitedly plucked the tool out from the disorganized pile of scraps, both a screwdriver and pair of pliers dropping to the ground in the process. “Here you go. Money-wrench...like you asked for...”

Tony raised an eyebrow, unamused even as Peter widened his smile to the point that pink gums glistened underneath the workshop lights.

“Uh-huh...” he muttered, snatching the monkey-wrench from Peter’s hands. He gave the kid a once-over before wheeling himself back to the other side of the room.

Peter swallowed past his embarrassment, watching silently while Mr. Stark’s hands stayed busy crafting whatever project he had been working on — Peter had been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to ask. He leaned down to pick up the tools that had dropped, screeching metal against hard concrete the only noise that filling space between them.

It had been quiet. The faint hum of airflow drafting out from the ceiling vents had been the most sound between them, not counting the occasional cough, sniffle, or inevitable swear word from Tony. And boy, could he get creative with those.

Not even music played from overhead, something that had become a tradition. _‘__Internship nights’ _were full of AC/DC and Black Sabbath, accompanied by a hearty dinner of pizza from the city — the works for Tony, Hawaiian toppings for Peter, who was never allowed to get his slices more than a foot next to Tony’s. In a way, that was also something of a tradition.

Peter unlocked the screen to his cell, checking the time. It had gotten late, way later than he thought it was. Tomorrow would be Monday morning; that meant waking up earlier than usual, what with Happy driving him straight from the compound to school.

Wait – crap, school. That was right; he wanted to try and come back with something that made the _‘internship’ _look real. He had been getting a nervous feeling about it lately, like the lie was getting dangerously close to being outed. Especially now, what with people like Norman Osborn finding out.

Peter looked up. “Hey, Mr. Stark?”

“No,” Tony answered without missing a beat.

“I didn’t even ask anything yet!” Peter’s jaw nearly hit the floor. His smile, large as the computer screens surrounding them, easily leaked any bite out from his shout.

Tony spun his chair around to face him. “You’re going to ask if you can use the Iron Man repulsors as your welding gun. And just like all the other times you’ve asked, the answer is a clear cut, never in your lifetime, non-negotiable _no_.”

Despite the fixed, exaggerated pout Peter gave, he couldn’t blame Mr. Stark for the assumption. His track record of the aforementioned request had exceeded a number so high, it could probably reach the top floor of the compound by now.

“That’s not what I was going to —” Peter shook his head, sighing. “You’re right, nevermind. It’s stupid.”

His sudden disinterest must have sparked something in Tony. He looked up almost immediately, quirked brow high, curiosity reflecting like the sun in his eyes. He dropped what he was doing in favor of leaning back in his chair.

“Humor me,” Tony said, resting folded hands across his stomach.

Peter chewed on his bottom lip, purposefully looking down at the table.

“I was just thinking — and it's just a thought, not a big deal or anything, just a thought I had...but...is there any way we could, like...” he trailed off, unsure of how to word what should have been a really, super easy question. “I don’t know, maybe make this whole...Stark Internship thing look...real?”

It felt weird to ask. This – whatever they called this, their little cover story for what in truth was something much bigger than just tinkering with robotics and the occasional A.I – it had been going on for nearly a year now, since Homecoming of last fall. It wasn’t that Peter had a problem with it, not in the slightest.

But people like Harry had _real _internships, concrete proof that backed up the time they poured into their work. Sure, Peter had Spider-man, but it wasn’t like his classmates knew that.

And hopefully, it stayed that way. Having Ned and MJ in the loop was headache enough.

Peter finally looked up, the suspense of an answer gnawing away at his patience.

What he saw was Tony was staring intently at him, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t consider _this _to be real?” he asked, his arm gesturing widely to the workshop around them.

Peter made a face – the kind that scrunched up his cheeks and eyes, an odd mix of cringe and grimace. Offending Mr. Stark was exactly what he was worried he might do. A spike of electricity shot up his nerves; the _last _thing he wanted was to lose the time Tony gave him out of his incredibly busy day.

“No, no, like..._I _do. It’s real. Obviously.” Peter only realized he had stopped talking when Tony lifted his eyebrow higher in the air. He swallowed, hard. “But other people...”

“That Thompson kid getting on your ass again?” Tony was quick to ask.

Peter shook his head. “Flash isn’t —”

“Because I can solve that problem in an afternoons time.” Tony casually spun his chair back around to face the workbench. “I’ve always wanted to see why your school charges so much for their lunch packages. Might just swing by and have a meal myself —”

“Oh my god, Mr. Stark,” Peter could have sworn he felt his heart explode into thousand tiny chunks. “Please _don’t _—”

“Pulling your leg, underoo’s.” A ghost of a smirk passed along Tony’s face. “The last thing Pepper needs before the wedding is for the press to think you’re some illegitimate child from my playboy days.”

Peter chuckled tiny sounds of amusement, the sounds mostly coated heavily with relief.

As Tony went back to fiddling with the cables and what appeared to be a motherboard belonging to the device on his workbench, Peter tucked his chin low to his chest, eyeing the screws and nails scattered across his table. Slowly, and without much thought, his index finger organized the pile.

“What were you thinking?” Tony asked from across the way.

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugged. “Something simple. Nothing complicated. Like...a photo or something, I don’t know.”

Tony tilted his head to the side, watching with wandering thoughts as Peter proceeded to organize loose bolts and fasteners in an obvious attempt to seem aloof. His act of appearing nonchalant didn’t go unnoticed, even if Tony didn’t vocalize it. He’d been around the kid long enough to know that Peter struggled the most when asking for things he really wanted.

It was one of the few areas where they _weren’t _alike. Tony wanted something, he got it. Peter — the kid was different in that way. As if asking for things that meant something to him would be a problem.

“A photo or something,” Tony repeated, humming quietly under his breath. “I’ll see what Pepper can scrounge up.”

Peter nodded a few times, still looking at the workbench. “Cool, cool.”

Tony shifted in his chair, a mild squeak echoing the room when he crossed his legs, his ankle resting comfortably against his knee. He studied Peter, watching as he entertained himself by categorizing metal fasteners.

It wasn’t like him.

In fact, quiet evenings like tonight weren’t the norm for either of them. Tony could count on one hand how many nights they spent not speaking, not engaging excitedly in whatever insane invention either of them thought up in a daydream. He’d come back from some mind-numbing board meeting with the idea for an anti-gravity device, or Peter would end up spending all of history class imagining tiny bots in the shape of spiders. And they’d run with it.

Most nights, they didn’t give themselves a break for pizza. Too busy playing off each others passion for science_, _too busy plucking each others brains in a way only like-minded people could do.

But this? Whatever this was, it wasn’t like either of them.

Tony tapped his foot persistently against his knee.

“Anything else on your mind?”

“Hm?” Peter’s eyes briefly flickered over to Tony.

“That’s the first time you’ve spoken since devouring nine slices of pizza about two hours ago,” he said matter-of-factly. “Either you have major indigestion — which I doubt seeing as your both mutated and teenager, an unstoppable force of a never-satisfied garbage truck stomach that could put the entire continent in famine...or there’s something else paying rent up there in that noggin of yours.”

Peter pulled his lips in tightly, making his mouth all but invisible. If there was ever a time he wanted blaring music to vibrate the walls, it was definitely now.

“Just...you know,” he trailed off again, his index finger pushing two screws into the growing pile in front of him. “Been preoccupied lately.”

“Uh-huh.” Tony folded his arms over his chest, clucking his tongue rather loudly. It managed to echo all the way over to where Peter sat, traveling to his side of the workshop with impressive force. The room held the kind of quiet that oscillated around them, murmurs of the technology embedded in the walls suddenly deafening.

All the while, Tony never relinquished his stare on Peter, the look only hardening as seconds ticked by.

Peter could feel it. It was intense as ever, like a shoulder watching over him despite being a good ten feet away. ‘_Stubborn Stark’ _as May would call it. It was the kind of look he had when he wasn’t planning to give up anytime soon. Or when Peter accidentally ordered adult pay-per-view on their road trip and wouldn’t come clean about the mistake.

With much reluctance, Peter finally looked up, lips as thin as ever as he forced out,

“I need a new backpack.”

Tony blinked. “What?”

“I...” Peter forced eye contact as sheepishly admitted, “I need a new backpack.”

“How?” Tony asked, pulling a face. “I just bought you one before school started.”

The exact conversation Peter was dreading to have landed straight in his lap faster than Mr. Delmar’s cat would do the same. Rubbing the back of his neck, he shrugged, and shrugged, and — jeeze, if he didn’t say something soon, his arms were going to fall right off.

“Yeah, it, um...there was this —”

“Can it.” Tony held a hand in the air, his eyes closed as if he was willing the patience to continue. “It’ll be on your doorstep in the morning.”

Peter sighed in relief. Oh. Well, that was easier than he thou —

“C’mon!” Tony exclaimed, slapping down a hand onto the armrest of his chair. “I just saved you from having to spew out some weak, poorly thought excuse of how you saved a kitten from a tree in Brooklyn and ripped a brand new backpack on the climb down. I deserve a _little _something for that, don’t I?”

“Huh?” Peter stammered, knitting his eyebrows tightly together. “It wasn’t a cat — I mean, that’s...actually a pretty good story, but it wasn’t —”

“You’re never this quiet, kid.” Tony’s admission was soft, softer than Peter had heard him talk all week, heck, all month it seemed. It was the kind of tone that hit him with pangs of guilt, growing and swelling into every empty space he had inside of him.

For Mr. Stark to sound...well, like _that _— it never meant anything good.

He was one of the many. Peter knew he’d been doing a crappy job lately, with both friends and family. The only reason Ned wasn’t giving him the cold shoulder was because he’d been bringing him candy to school every day, practically bribing him to stay happy despite his very-vocal-unhappiness at Harry’s return. He had been rude and unappreciative to Natasha yesterday, just running off like that when she was trying to talk to him — an _Avenger, _trying to talk with him, and he bolted away like his pants were on fire.

Even May was starting to seem bummed out at his neglect, what little time they could spend together brushed off so he could instead binge-watch Netflix alone in his room. And there wasn’t even anything worth binging lately; it just seemed to be his excuse to decompress.

“I’ve just been busy with school,” Peter insisted. “I’m getting some tutoring in history class, that’s all.”

Hey, it wasn’t a total lie. Between patrolling, after school activities, and now tutoring, he _had _been incredibly busy. But the fact that Peter had to tell himself it wasn’t a lie — that was a little concerning.

“Right,” Tony nodded, huffing a hefty amount of air through his cheeks. “Wouldn’t happen to be Osborn’s kid helping you out, would it?”

The question blew through the room like a bomb.

Peter snapped his neck up, his stomach doing a back-flip strong enough to make the nine slices of pizza he ate earlier creep up into his throat.

“How’d you know that?” he asked, his voice thinning out at the end.

Tony sniffed, hard, and flicked his thumb across his nose.

“I try and make it a point to stay up to date on things happening with your school. Lunch menus, funding getting cut in the visual arts curriculum — which let’s be honest makes sense. It’s a STEM school, not Juilliard.” Tony sat a little straighter in his chair, his brows furrowed tightly together. “And a billionaires son joining your class right as the semester starts. Kinda makes my list.”

Peter swallowed past the digested pizza that began creep into his mouth. He wasn’t sure why his heart was pounding, or why his palms had gotten slick with sweat — there was nothing to be nervous about.

Well, aside from Mr. Stark’s stare, eyes so narrowed and stern that Peter finally had to look away.

“Yeah, he’s...he’s helping me,” Peter explained, clearing his throat quietly. “What’s the big deal?”

The sound of wheels rolling against the ground flooded Peter’s ears. He didn’t need to look up to see Mr. Stark had moved closer towards him; he could practically feel the man’s body heat against his forearms.

“Oh, I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me,” Tony’s casual tone failed to match the energy he put out. “Because it feels like the story doesn’t end there.”

Peter spared him a glance before shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” Tony insisted. “My gut’s telling me that.”

Peter shrugged, unable to look Tony head-on as he argued, “Well, you can’t always trust your gut.”

Even _that _felt like a lie, spoken straight through his teeth.

Tony rolled his chair back a few feet, squinting his eye slightly as he gave them a bit more breathing room. Wordlessly, he watched Peter organize a couple of nails into the pile meant for screws. A beat passed by before he realized the kid hadn’t even recognized the mistake.

“Then prove me wrong.”

Peter raked his fingers through his hair, twisting his mouth in an odd way that any other time, Mr. Stark would have made some sarcastic joke about.

He didn’t know why this was so difficult for him to answer, it wasn’t like he was in trouble. All he needed was to muster up a little bit of confidence so he could admit the truth — which _again, _wasn’t a problem. He just had to keep telling himself that he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

And ignore Mr. Stark’s stare, which made him believe otherwise.

“Harry and I go back a little bit,” Peter mentioned, a little too quiet for his faux confidence to take hold of.

For a suspended moment, Tony stared at him, quiet and unmoving.

“You what?” he finally balked, confusion getting the best of him. ** “**You’re sixteen. Going _‘back a little bit’ _would mean you were a fetus in the womb.”

Peter’s ears reddened. “C’mon on, Mr. Stark —”

“You friends with this guy or something?” Tony rushed to ask, working his jaw.

Peter took notice, scrunching up his face at whatever attitude Mr. Stark was throwing his way. What was his deal? Whatever hostility he had going on was making him anxious, and that was just completely uncool. Lab nights and workshop hangouts were supposed to be fun, chill.

This was so not chill.

“We grew up together,” Peter tried to play off the fact like it was nothing. “Went to the same elementary school, started middle school together. He got transferred and we...drifted apart.”

“_Drifted apart?_” Tony echoed back, a line forming between his eyebrows. “That’s...as many years as I have fingers on one hand. That’s not drifting apart — by law of time, babies are not able to drift apart.”

Peter rolled his eyes, electing to ignore the latter half of Tony’s comment. “Maybe. I don’t know. He seems like he wants to be friends again, so...we’re hanging out. No big deal.”

There was something about Tony that Peter had come to figure out not long after they started spending time together — real time together, the kind that May would joke about, saying it made her jealous. The man had an aura; he spoke with his demeanor, with the energy that poured out of him. With or without intention.

So with that in mind, it didn’t take long for Peter to notice the thick, suffocating blanket of tension that began to whirl around them. It was swift, a tornado that wrecked everything in its place.

Peter knew long before ever looking up that the eye of the storm had originated from Tony.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Pete?” he asked, concern etched deep into the contours of his face.

Peter chewed roughly on his bottom lip, the twinge of pain enough to ground him. It was stuff like this that made him feel like he was in trouble.

“I...didn’t feel like I needed too.” Peter shrugged for what felt like the millionth time.

“_Yeah, _you did,” Tony argued, a strict boom of authority lacing his tone. “With everything going on with OsCorp —”

“What! What’s going on with OsCorp!?” Peter spun around in his stool, so quickly that the wheels beneath him jostled the workbench. “I don’t know, you don’t _tell _me these things!”

A look of realization fell over Tony. His face dropped almost as quickly as the handful of screws that fell to the floor. They chimed against the concrete ground, one after another, all while he clearly worked his brain for a response.

“It’s nothing you need to get involved in,” he finally managed, after a pause too long.

“Why?” Peter didn’t let even a millisecond go by without pushing the issue. “What’s the big deal?”

Tony huffed in exasperation. “Listen to me, Pete —”

“You’ve kept everything secret from me, and I don’t even know what’s going on!” Peter was breathless, agitated impatience leeching into his every word. “If things are such a big deal that you don’t want me being friends with Harry all because of OsCorp, shouldn’t I get to know why!”

“You do know why, kid,” Tony bit back sharply, addressing Peter with stern eyes. He stood up from his chair, letting it wheel away from him without a second thought. “Sentient rock androids? A maniac running around wearing a fishbowl on his head? An entire bunker built under the sea? _Radioactive__ spiders? _Any of this ring a bell?”

The room went quiet, if only for a second. Peter seemed to shrink down in his stool, unintentionally hunching over to make himself look smaller.

“I just thought—”

“No, that’s the problem, you _didn’t_ think,” Tony’s knee-jerk anger dissipated almost as quickly as it came, his entire body softening a mere moment after his retort. He sighed loudly, running a grease-stained hand down along his face. “Because you didn’t have to. This isn’t your battle. The Avengers will deal with OsCorp and whatever shit they’re spewing out of their ass. But you? You need to stay on the ground, that’s where you belong, that’s where we need you.”

“But I’m able to help!” Peter perked right back up, unable to keep containing the frustrated eagerness he had been suppressing for months now. A part of him knew he should be approaching this in a much different way, that he should be acting more calm and patient. But _finally _talking about all these things had him way too excited.

And Tony could tell. He pinched tightly at the bridge of his nose. “Christ, kid —”

“I can be a part of this, I can do things for you guys!” Peter stood up from his stool, the wheels pushing it far behind him. He didn’t care, approaching Tony with wildly excited hands. “Especially if I’m friends with Harry! That’s like, an inside source, right?”

Tony looked him straight on. “Reel it in, kiddo —”

“I can get access to places!” His arm gestured to nothing particular in the room. “Like OsCorp, I’ve already been inside OsCorp!”

“Yeah, I _know_.” Tony marched wide steps to close the distance between them, more intimidating now than he ever could be with the Iron Man armor on. “And that’s _not _happening again.”

Peter’s brain shuddered to a halt.

His arms dropped down to his sides with a _smack, _confusion coloring his face so brightly that he could feel the heat reddening his cheeks.

“You....” he cocked his head to the side, as if it would better assist in gauging Mr. Stark’s expression. There was something noticeable in it, as if the man realized a second too late what he had said. Like he had blurted out a secret not meant for Peter to know.

Peter didn’t like how that made him feel.

“How do you know these things — are you spying on me?”

Tony sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the accusation. He looked away, noticeably debating on a response, shaking his head tightly.

After a short, heated glare directed at the walls, he lifted his arm in the air. Immediately after, he used the other to point his finger sharply at his wrist, and the watch strapped around it.

The same that watch Peter wore.

Looking down at his own hand, Peter furrowed his brows, eyeing the nanite technology wrapped tightly around his skin. It took a second, but once the realization sunk in —

“This thing tracks me!?”

If Tony wasn’t pissed off with the accusation before, he definitely was now.

“No,” he curtly rebutted. “Not until it’s removed.”

Stumbling a bit on the uptake, Peter made a face, mentally re-tracing his steps. Now it just felt like they were both accusing each other of things — Peter never took the watch off. Hell, most of the time he forgot he had it on. It was like a second skin, nanites so advanced he only noticed it when someone pointed it out.

When someone pointed it —

_Of course. _

He closed his eyes and held them shut, cursing inwardly.

“I took it off for security,” Peter mumbled, the realization pummeling down on him, hard.

“It’s a panic watch.” Tony’s jaw clicked as he crossed his arms, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. “What did you think was going to happen if you took it off?”

Peter should have known better. He should have known better, he should have known better, he should have — _damn it, _what was he thinking?

“What were you doing in OsCorp?” Tony pressed, stiffening with tension, his mouth set in a thin line.

Peter kept his eyes shut, finding it easier to focus on the swirling colors beneath his eyelids than the look he knew Mr. Stark was giving him. _T__hat look. _The one on Staten Island, the one from the night he encountered Mysterio in Time Squares, the one that made him feel like he was in trouble and — seriously, why was he even in trouble here!? _All _he did was go into a building, it was just a building, and it happened a whole week ago, so why —

Wait.

Peter suddenly opened his eyes, frowning. That happened, like, last week. That meant Mr. Stark had known for...what was it, almost seven days now? They had seen each other since then, multiple times. And he never thought to just _ask _him about it?

“Is that why you’ve been throwing me so much shade?” he huffed, animosity riding into his tone.

Tony balked. “Throwing you — _what_?”

“You’ve been wanting to know why I was at OsCorp, but you didn’t want to admit you were spying on me?”

“Peter, it’s not spying!” Tony raised his voice, frustrated aggravation quickly heating up the room. “The tracker sent me a notification —”

“I was studying!”Peter threw his hands in the air, the words ripping straight through his throat. “Harry invited me to his private lounge there so he could tutor me. I’m sure you’re disappointed but that’s it, that’s all I was doing. I wasn’t getting into trouble, I was _studying!_”

The yelling came to a stop, leaving echos of their voices to drift against the walls.

Tony had fixated his eyes on Peter — tight, tired, the dark moons above his cheekbones somehow deeper and more apparent even under the dim workshop lights.

Peter gulped down his nerves, wound so tightly in his stomach that he _definitely _could taste at least five of the nine slices of pizza he ate earlier, pineapple and all. It was only once the room fell quiet again that he realized he had been yelling.

At Mr. Stark.

He yelled at Mr. Stark.

Crap.

_Now _he was in trouble.

Silently, Tony stuffed his hands inside his jean pockets, grease smearing on the blue material. He sniffed, hard, and looked elsewhere as he flatly stated,

“I think it’s best you stay away from him.”

Peter blinked. His brain was definitely having trouble catching up after the whole _‘__he just yelled at Mr. Stark’ _part of things.

“What?” he managed, disbelief too thick for him to talk through.

“The Osborn kid,” Tony quietly, yet sternly explained. He pulled his shoulders back with stiff tension. “You need to put a halt to this buddy-buddy thing. Go back to playing superhero and sidekick with that Fred kid — Ted? Ned! That’s progress, I knew there was a correlation there, give me credit for these things.”

Peter stared at him, his jaw so unhinged that it practically cleaned the floor.

Tony rambled on, never once looking Peter’s way. “Focus on your studies, get back into your hobbies, lock your bedroom door for once like a normal teenager — it’s okay to be a little pervy at your age, you don’t have to be a walking angel all the time. Point is, for right now, just until we get this thing settled with —”

“Mr. Stark, this is ridiculous!” Peter was shouting again, raising his voice when Tony had yet to raise his. “C’mon, Harry is a good guy, it’s not like he’s his dad!”

Tony dropped his head, rubbing at his forehead with enough pressure to dent the skin. Even out of view, Peter could see his frown deepening, the tension in his neck making his veins stick out more prominently.

“You’re right,” Tony started, clenching his jaw tightly. “But he’s an extension of him, and that’s just as dangerous.”

Peter let out a huff through his nose, unable to look Mr. Stark in the eye anymore. It was a good thing too; his gaze could probably melt a glacier.

“I thought you of all people wouldn’t judge someone by their dad.”

Tony’s eyes grew big, his lips parting with disbelief.

If it meant anything — anything at all — Peter _did _regret the words the moment he said them.

But he was also mad.

And that seemed to be winning over anything else right now.

So he didn’t apologize, he didn’t take them back. Not even when neither of them spoke for what felt like a lifetime.

Peter chewed his lip fiercely, his face practically glowing red. The hum of A.C had grown so loud, he wanted to crawl into a vent and turn it off himself.

There was a lot of silence.

The crushing weight of unguarded anger had finally overtook the room, inundated frustration drowning out any chance of getting their heads above water again.

“Do as you’re told, Peter,” Tony finally spoke up, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically sharp edge.

Months of agitation, of secrets and more secrets, of being kept in the dark like a child who couldn’t be trusted —

“Will you stop treating me like a kid!”

“You are one!” Tony’s voice thundered right over his. “And you’re going to be in for a rough time when you finally get yours hands on that birth certificate of yours — although I’m growing more tempted by the minute to hack into every damn hospital database in Queen’s and have it on display in this facility to remind you that _you are a kid!_ Like it or not, you need to do what you’re told! And I’m telling you now — _stay away _from him.”

Peter shook his head, aggressively, angrily. This was the same argument they had just a week ago, when he was told he couldn’t be around Bucky — and now Harry? Not even May would dictate who he could and couldn’t see. What happened to trusting him, to treating him like an equal?

He gritted his teeth with frustration — what happened to being one of them?

“No,” Peter fired back, hands clenched into fists so tight that he could feel his nails digging into the soft skin of his palm. “You can’t tell me who I’m allowed to be friends with.”

“Goddamn it, Peter!” Tony smacked his hand against the workbench, random mechanical parts tumbling to the ground in a fit of temper. “This isn’t like being grounded, this isn’t causing trouble at some party — it’s much bigger than that and it almost got you killed!”

“Will you stop bringing that up!” Peter spun on his heels, snatching his backpack off the ground with wordless sounds of anger, painfully muted beneath tightly clenched teeth. “I am so _sick _of you treating me like glass! That wasn’t my fault and you know —!”

Everything came to a stop.

Peter froze.

Every muscle in his body solidified, the hairs on the back of his arms turning into knives that dug into his skin.

Sharp, agonizing, screaming at him, electrifying his entire being.

“Something’s wrong,” Peter forced out, choked out, barely intelligible over the swell of his vocal cords.

He tried to say more.

He couldn’t.

“Peter? Hey, Pete?” Mr. Stark was talking to him, Peter could hear it, he could see the man’s lips moving. But he couldn’t concentrate on it. Overwhelming vibrations tore into the nape of his neck, stealing away his thoughts, his composure, _everything._ “Talk to me, kid, you’re freaking me out here.”

Something was wrong. Something bad was going to happen, he could _feel _it, he knew it, he just knew it.

Peter struggled for air, heavy, panicked breathing hitting him like beams of steel from a collapsing building — it could be the ceiling, the entire roof could be seconds from crushing them flat under concrete — puffs of air coming one after another, short, sharp. Borderline hyperventilating.

“Hey, hey, _breathe, _kid.” Tony was closer to him now, hands gripping his shoulders firmly — when had that happened? “You keep panting like a dog in heat and you’re going to pass out six ways to Sunday.”

Peter shook his head; it didn’t matter. Not now. Not when something was —

“Wrong. Something’s wrong, something’s bad gunna happen —”

“Okay, okay,” Tony urged, his tone low, pitched to soothe, a drastic change. “What? What’s going to happen?”

There was no time to answer, no time to think, no time react. Like a jet falling from the sky, convicted to crash on the shores of the beach, thousands of pieces exploding at impact. Peter could feel his heart pummeling against the bones of his rib-cage, destined to explode right alongside it.

“I dunno,” he barely managed to squeak out. “It could be anything – something – anything. Something’s gunna happen...it could — someone could be breaking in. A burglary.”

Tony kept a strong grip on his shoulders. “This place has enough security to stop that.”

Peter’s throat worked silently.

“The — the chemicals. There could be a – a leak, or – or something,” his words tripped over one another, gushing to get everything out at once. “An explosion or —”

“DUM-E’s on standby with an extinguisher. Always. You know that,” Tony calmly reminded him. “And even when he fails at that, this place has a sprinkler system large enough to put out a forest wildfire. Smokey the Bear wouldn’t even have time to lecture us. What else?”

Peter shook his head, faster and faster by the second, dizzying him into vertigo. There was too much. Too much, and the vibrations in his neck were too loud, piercing down his spine, a paralyzing effect on his every muscle.

“The – the floors, they could give out, we could —”

“Look at me, Peter,” Tony stressed. He repeated himself when Peter didn’t listen. “I said look at me, kid.”

Peter hadn’t looked at him until that point.

He wished he didn’t look at all.

“Tell me five things you see.” Tony’s voice was different, delicate, a far cry from the barks of tempered agitation they had been exchanging mere seconds ago.

Peter didn’t understand.

He wasn’t listening, he never _listened _—

“There’s no _time, _Mr. Stark, we gotta —”

“Come on, amuse me,” Tony pushed again. “Five things you see.”

Peter took a step back, both of Tony’s hands falling away from his shoulders. He nearly tripped on the backpack that he dragged on the ground, strap held tightly in his hand, soon to be broken right alongside the other.

With a _thud, _his backside hit the workbench behind him — no sound entered his ears, silenced over the excruciating drone of panic that increased with vociferous urgency.

“There’s too many, _way _more than five and — why aren’t you taking this seriously!?” Peter snapped. “We need to stop whatever it….”

The words died in Peter’s throat, as well as whatever air he desperately needed to draw in next.

The painstaking vibrations had reached a crescendo.

Peter’s eyes bounced around the room, frenzied to find whatever it was, whatever it could be, whatever had left and was a threat to return. His focus was his priority; Mr. Stark’s voice happened to leak through that.

“Okay, Pete? I'm gonna need you to ease back on the throttle a bit, yeah?”

Peter shot his head towards him, so fast he could hear the fluid in his joints swish. “Huh?”

The white spots that had begun to spread across his vision slowly stared to recede, diminishing away one by one. It wasn’t until then that Peter saw exactly how close Mr. Stark had gotten to him, mere inches from his face, worry coating his every feature.

“Look, it’s gonna be fine. You’re fine, nothing to freak out about.” He swallowed; arms hanging stiff at his sides. “Gosh, you really do want to be like me, don’t you, kid...”

Tony bowed his head for a moment while he scrubbed a hand across his scalp. Then, chewing the corner of his lip, he sighed and lifted his face once more. “I'm sorry. I know this isn’t really what you want to hear but... well, I kinda saw this coming about... I dunno... a while back. Actually I'm sorta surprised it didn’t hit you sooner.”

Peter fell quiet. He didn’t know what to say, not at first, not while Mr. Stark stared at him in a way that felt….not-Mr. Stark-like.

He hated to admit it, but he almost wanted the fighting to come back.

“Saw what coming?” Peter hauled in a shaky breath, a certain kind of panic breeding with the confusion running rampant in his head.

Tony shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He looked away for a moment, his shoulders stiff with tension that crippled the room inert.

“I mean, who wouldn’t have... you know... a few, issues, after the shit you’ve been through. Nothing to be embarrassed about – we all get them. You’ve seen what Cap does to punching bags, right? You think I couldn’t design one that he couldn’t destroy? The answer is; of course I could. Actually did, a couple years back. Thing is, Cap deals with his issues by destroying gym equipment. I deal with mine by building stuff. Nat deals with hers by... actually I don’t know what the hell she does. Point is, all of us have got issues.”

He singled out the word before ever giving himself chance to hear anything else Tony had said.

“Issues?” Peter repeated, shaking his head. “I-I don’t have issues.”

Tony took a step forward. Peter took one step back.

“Okay, that’s fine, we don’t have to call them issues. What’s that term all you Gen Zs are tossing around these days? Executive dysfunction? Whatever – what I’m getting at is you don't have to try to deal with it on your own —”

“I don’t have…” Peter scoffed, shaking his head harder, the vertigo stronger now than ever. “I don’t! That’s just..I don’t!”

Tony let out another sigh, one so deep it lifted his shoulders high, the drop heaving them low.

“This is a panic attack, kid,” he stated frankly. “I know one when I see one. Trust me.”

Peter kept shaking his head, as if he could will the moment away, make it all disappear. Every second he stayed standing where he was only made things worse, made the corkscrew in his chest tighten with frightening capability.

No matter how many times he swallowed, he couldn’t push down the feeling; gut-twisting, nerve-wracking feeling that had him seeing double — no, triple. The air in the room was suddenly too thin, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t —

“It’s not — it’s —”

He needed to get out_._

Peter swung his backpack over his shoulder, nearly pushing Tony out of the way in his rush to leave. His feet moved faster than Tony had ever seen him go out-of-costume before.

His legs bounded to the doorway straight ahead, wide strides getting him there in no time, his chin tucked low to his chest the whole way there.

“Peter, wait!” Tony spun around, tossing his hands in the air with an aggravated sigh. The automatic doors _swished _shut before he could say another word. “Goddammit...”

* * *

Chirping crickets from outside the compound flooded his ears, the weather still warm enough for them to sing their evening song, the summer not yet departing ways for the crisp, autumn chill that came with sundown.

In his bedroom, Peter sat quietly on the floor, his back pressed flush against the mattress of his bed. His eyes watered as he looked straight ahead, staring off at a wall that had nothing to offer but _Star Wars _posters and shelves filled with décor that he never picked out.

The crickets, along with the sound of his uneven breathing, was all he could hear while hunched over, knees held tightly to his chest. The time that had passed since his argument with Mr. Stark was a blurry haze, lost in the fit of wrangled emotion. His eyes stung with irritation as he forced back burning pools of liquid, an unrelenting pressure building behind his temples, soon to rupture.

Peter felt like a foreigner in his own body — wired, a guitar string pulled too tight. Sensations mangled him, dismembered his composure; a feral animal having dug its claws through and through. Just taking in air hurt — his breaths hitched and wheezed, a constant punching to his gut stealing wind from within. Like someone had a fist clenched tightly around his lungs and another wrapped around his throat.

Strangling him, choking him.

Not his parents, not Ben, not the bite had ever made him feel like this.

Nothing compared to this.

“**Peter?” **The gentle voice was tender to his ears even as it cut through the silence, warm like a mother’s touch. **“This is your five-minute reminder, as you requested.”**

Peter barely glanced over to the source of the voice, the nightstand nearby. Next to multiple textbooks, his dimly lit lamp, and half-emptied water bottles, laid the mask to his Spider-man suit. It was inside-out, the lively red hidden from sight, only the ugly lines of circuitry in view. It was the easiest way to hear from his A.I, at least without having to don the mask entirely.

He couldn’t dare put it on right now.

He’d feel like a fraud.

“Thanks, Karen,” Peter practically whispered, his voice hoarse from unuse. “Is everything...am I still alright?”

Peter clenched his knees tighter as he waited for a response, his knuckles turning ghost white.

“**Your vitals are within normal range, excluding a slightly elevated heart rate,” **she finally reported.** “Are you feeling any better?” **

Haltingly, Peter shook his head. “No.”

He hunched further forward, resting his chin against the skin of his forearms. The hairs on his arms stood up so straight they tickled against his face, sending bursts of shivers down his spine.

It had been hours; it had to have been, he’d lost count of the times Karen had checked on him. Nothing had changed, for better or worse. She’d say he was fine, he was okay, that nothing was physically wrong with him. But he never felt okay.

He didn’t feel okay at all.

And he couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Stark was right.

The color washed away from his face, his eyes squeezing shut with denial. There was no way, he wouldn’t believe it. He was Spider-man. _Spider-man. _He was strong, he was a hero – right? Hero’s weren’t weak, hero’s didn’t freak out over these things. These stupid, ridiculous, childish things.

Peter groaned, beating his forehead against his arms. Who knows, maybe if he tried hard enough, he could knock the thoughts loose from his head.

“**Is there anything I can do?” **Karen’s compassionate voice asked, unprovoked, unexpected.

Peter stuffed his mouth in the gap between his arms, voice muffled as he spoke, “Check in again in five minutes?”

There was a pause, the room filled only with chirping crickets from outside.

“**Of course.”**

It had become a routine by now. Peter knew that if she was a real person, she’d have gotten sick of him. Heck, he was getting sick of himself.

There was small voice in the back of his head trying desperately to remind him of reality. That this wasn’t a first, the experience from tonight wasn’t new. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, he couldn’t. He had flipped out when Harry started talking about Paris, he ran away from Natasha when she was trying to confine in him. He panicked then and he panicked tonight —

Peter shook his head, harder and harder by the second. He wasn’t panicked, this wasn’t some sort of anxiety attack. He just couldn’t get enough air in, that was all. A weight sat on his chest, heavy, constricting him from breathing.

Once he got in enough air, he’d be fine. He just needed to breathe.

He hadn’t even realized he was hyperventilating again until Karen’s voice grounded him back to reality.

“**Would you like me to call for help?”**

“No!” Peter quickly said, the word sloppy against his rapid breathing. “No no no – no. I’m fine. I’m fine. I don’t need help.”

“**Your heart rate is rising again,” **Karen informed him.** “My protocols insist that **—”

“Screw the protocols, Karen!”Peter pulled at his hair, yanking harshly at the handfuls.“Mr. Stark doesn’t – he doesn’t _get _it. I don’t need his help. Seriously, I’m fine.”

The thrumming of his stampeding heart rate practically taunted him, his body at rest being no match for the cyclone that raged on inside. He had no answer for what was wrong with him, and he refused to even entertain the idea that Mr. Stark might be right.

He was Spider-man. He was better than that — he _had _to be better than that.

“**I can always call someone else. Sam Wilson appears to be in his quarters, as well as Doctor Banner.”**

Peter weakly shook his head, tucking himself back into the wrap of his arms. “Just – just check in again in five minutes, okay?”

She didn’t respond this time around.

Peter couldn’t blame her.

With a sigh that never left his lips, Peter closed his eyes, trying with all the effort he could muster to focus on the sounds outside. His senses felt as if they were dialed twice as high, riding a wave of overdrive that he couldn’t control.

No matter how hard he tried to remain calm, the noises only got louder, and the skin of his arms began to crawl.

A chill swept over him, one stronger than the actual temperature of the room. Peter shuddered. He felt cold and clammy at the same time, a sheen of sweat forming against his lower back and glistening on his forehead. With each second that passed by, his heart began to beat faster, harder — faster, faster, faster —

“**Peter? This is your five-minute reminder, as you **—**”**

“Am I dying?” he croaked out, his voice shaking, his arms trembling.

There was another pause. He couldn’t hear crickets this time, only his own pulse hammering against his skull.

“**No, Peter,” **Karen softly answered. “**Your vitals are within normal range, excluding a slightly elevated heart rate. You appear to be in high emotional distress...but not physical.”**

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, crumpling inwards on himself. A stressful sob built up in his chest, one that he refused to let out. It rose suddenly, a torrent that had been building, accumulating. His breathing came in harder, faster, and suddenly the room began to tilt with the effects of a broken carousel.

“**Do you feel like you’re dying?” **Karen asked, the question warped under the sound of his panicked breathing.

“I dunno,” Peter struggled to get out, his tongue heavy and his voice thick. A shiver tore through him, and he hugged himself tighter. “I just...I don’t want to die.”

Leaning his head back, Peter looked to the ceiling. The pool of liquid sitting in his eyes freed itself to slide down his cheeks, seamlessly smooth, warm against his skin. He swallowed forcefully, the hard lump in his throat painful, a violent threat to his need for air.

“I’m really scared of dying,” he whispered. It wasn’t directed to anyone in particular, not to Karen, not to himself. Rather, a realization.

“**Is there anything I can do?”**

Peter pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until spots appeared beneath his eyelids, a quiet curse muttered under his breath. If Karen reported any of this back to Mr. Stark…

Crap, this was a bad idea. A surefire way to get his suit taken away, or get punished with another grounding, or something else insanely stupid.

And he’d have no one to blame this time but himself.

“I’m gunna go to bed, okay?” Peter slowly got up off the floor, stiff joints protesting from hours of sitting in the same spot. “Don’t worry about it, just...thanks for...for being here.”

“**Of course, Peter.”**

With a sigh, Peter took a few steps forward, reaching the nightstand and flipping his mask back to its original form. He wasn’t mad at Karen, he wasn’t even disappointed. A.I or not, she had helped him tonight, in what small way she could. But she was still an A.I, one that followed her programming.

Right now, Peter just couldn’t deal with that. He knew Mr. Stark meant well, but all this — things like grounding him, telling him he couldn’t see Bucky, or Harry — this was way too much for him. Just when he thought they were giving him a place on the team, letting him become his own person — it turned out he was still being treated with kid gloves.

With a quick twist of his fingers, Peter turned off the lamp in his room. He just needed to deal with this on his own.

The large bay window near his bed was the only thing that gave him any light, the stars still shining through the dark blue skies, a half-crescent moon visible through the trees across the compound.

With little aggression and mostly apathy, he kicked away his backpack lying sprawled out on the ground. Loose papers and pens scattered across the carpet floor as it rolled near his headboard, broken strap in plain view for him to see. He scarcely took notice of the black stain smeared along the side pocket, a problem he could ignore until morning.

For now, Peter crawled into bed. He could only hope some sleep would make all this go away.

* * *

The radiating heat from the crackling fireplace was hot enough to generate beads of sweat across his forehead, sticky and damp along his hairline. But even as he sat only a few feet from the burning embers, he couldn’t get warm. He hadn’t been warm in months.

“Fascinating,” Norman drawled out, his finger swiping through the electronic tablet that sat in his lap. “Who would have thought my finesse of controlling emotional lability would play such a hand in the progression of this disease?”

He looked up, his eyes meeting the blue irises of the woman sitting across from him. She uncrossed her legs in the recliner chair, frowning.

“I wouldn’t go as far to say that, Mr. Osborn,” Adler stated, a leveled tone leaving no chance of discerning any emotion in her words. “However, this certainly puts us at a juncture of what to do.”

Norman hummed thoughtfully, rocking steadily in the recliner seated close to the fireplace. His finger scrolled at the same pace, leisurely taking in the information handed to him.

“What do you recommend next, doctor?”

Adler placed her hands gently in her lap; her white lab coat folded neatly across the armrest of her chair. She cleared her throat, carefully choosing her next words.

“We’ve tried to alter the structure of the symbionts to better match the more...tightly contained hormonal balance of your brain chemistry.”

“But?” Norman didn’t look up as he spoke. His head stayed low, the shadows of the burning fire casting dark circles underneath his eyes — darker than what already colored his skin.

“We can’t find success. The symbiote’s are only attracted to neurochemicals that are actively excited,” she explained. “They won’t bond to the host unless the pathway to the brain is wired for emotional instability. It _needs_ an emotional creature.”

Norman calmly leaned forward, handing her the tablet with an expressionless face, if only appearing thoroughly tired.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he loosened his tie even further than what it already was, now just a piece of cloth hanging freely down his white-button up shirt. “What do you recommend next?”

Adler hesitated.

“There’s only one solution we have to alter your neurotransmitters, to create a more unstable, emotional byway for the symbiote to bond with.”

The wooden logs from beside him split apart with blazing embers, so close that he could have sworn one touched down on his forearm. It felt nice; warm. Norman rested two fingers delicately across his lips, looking ahead in the room with an absentminded stare.

“I take it Dr. Murphy has already begun to restructure the formula?”

“He’s at the starting phase, yes.”

Norman leaned back even further into his recliner, practically sinking into the leather cushions. “And the pathology reports, how do they show?”

Adler hesitated, yet again. The pause lasted longer this time, and when Norman finally managed to look her head-on, he could have sworn he saw a flicker of emotion in the normally emotionless doctor.

“Terminal. Your cells have seen too much degeneration, too much decay. It’s...beyond remission.”

He looked away, this time at the fireplace. Black soot clouded his vision, burning in his eyes with a stinging pain of irritation.

Months of hard work. Wasted. Time — gone. And they had barely gotten one step forward.

“So what you’re saying is I don’t have much choice in the matter,” he concluded.

The disinclination spoke in the silence that followed, no response from the doctor sitting across from him.

“You were initially against the reintroduction of Oz, no?” Norman went on to say, coercion a thin coat over his tone. “What was it you said about my behavior during the trials...schizophrenia? Dissociative identity disorder?”

Alder nodded. “That is correct, sir.”

Norman nodded alongside her, tapping callous fingers against the leather armrest of the recliner.

“And now?”

Adler drew in a shallow breath. “It’s your only chance, sir.”

_Krrrrreeaaaaakkkk…_

_Freezing cold water shrouds his body, raging waves of the ocean sloshing, crashing._

_The air’s arctic, each inhale crystallizes his lungs with razor-sharp icicles, piercing through him with a raw, frigid chill._

_It hurts._

_It hurts so, so much._

“_Ple–pl–ease...”_

_The sounds he makes are sickening, disgusting. Bile surges up from within, hot and acidic in his throat. Waves of heat course through him, the pain boils his depleting blood. Yet the cold is bone-chilling, relentless. Biting at the edges, sinking its teeth deep inside, driving breath away from his lungs._

_Krrrrreeaaaaakkkk…_

_The walls around him vibrate, they scream with an ache for release, a cry under pressure. _

_So does he._

“_...I–d’nt...I don’t–want...”_

_The palpating pulse of the sea is only outmatched by his own, fighting to be heard over the violence that surrounds him. His heart clamors in his chest, dangerously fast, ferociously weak. Hammering, thrashing with the desperate need to stay alive. _

_StayaliveStayaliveStayalive…_

_Stayalive…_

_Stay..._

_He’s frighteningly aware of each beat, each pummel against the bones of his rig-cage._

_And terrified of when it’ll stop. _

_It’s tundra-cold. Freezing, and yet fire burns within him, a sizzling inferno lit deep in his gut. He’s lost the feeling of what belongs to the ocean and what belongs to him. Water and blood run together as one, embers of hot pain leaking out from a gushing pocket of missing tissue and punctured organs. _

_It smells like metal, like the chains that hold him hostage to the walls nearby. _

_It smells like death._

_Krrrrreeaaaaakkkk…_

_He’s trembling, tremulous with fear, shaking apart. Legs writhe on the floor, hands clench and unclench into fists. Every breath for air is a gasp, stolen away by sobs that choke him, suffocate him. _

“_Ple–pl–ease...”_

_There’s no hope, no promise of rescue. There’s only the brittle finality of what was now. Fear sifts through the hollow place of his core, spreading through a wound that not even his mutated abilities can mend. _

_The echo of a discordant rumbling tears him apart, the sea swollen to its confined depths, a growling from the fathoms outside. Enraged walls weaken, their cries growing louder as his dwindle down. _

_KkkkrrrrreeeAAAAKKK!_

_Water barrels towards him, the taste of salt rushing down his throat, his frantic gasps for air filling his lungs with unceasing pressure. _

_Wave after wave after wave after wave _ — _he can’t breathe, strangled on a paralyzing inhale. _

_Gagging, drowning. _

“_I..I d’n’t...” Immediate senses evaporate; his ears ring too loudly, his body grows numb, listless. “I d’n’t wanna die…”_

_Darkness closes in on the edges of his vision, swallowing him whole, submerging him under the duress of the sea._

_KkkrrreeeaAAKK —_

“Achk!”

Peter gasped loudly, startled awake into the same darkness that had been in his dreams.

The only sound was his breathing; fast and unsteady, his breaths short, sharp.

For a split moment, he was too afraid to move, too disoriented to recognize anything besides his racing heart.

Tangled in disheveled blankets, he kicked them away with panicked movements, swallowing again and again to rid the lump in his throat. Moonlight poured from the window nearby and he blinked several times, fighting to recognize the night stars that lit chiaroscuro against the walls of his bedroom.

His bedroom _— _Peter looked around frantically, his chest rising and falling with rapid procession. Unwanted adrenaline wracked his nerves, sweat coating his skin, thick as the blankets wrapped around his body.

With nauseating relief, Peter struggled upright, clarity making him force down the sickness that began to gurgle upwards in his stomach.

His bedroom. Not home, but also not there.

He wasn’t there.

With a sigh, Peter closed his eyes.

* * *

The lights in the kitchen came on with a slow fade, accompanied by the sound of bare-feet making their way across the smooth, marble tile.

Bucky barely looked up as Peter came walking into the kitchen. Automatic lights that had since shut off from his inactivity began to brighten softly. A warm, yellow glow highlighted the counter-tops and gave way to the shadows he’d been sitting in.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” he dryly asked, slowly setting his beer bottle down on the table. With detached interest, he eyed the kid quietly, watching as he opened the fridge to pull out a carton of milk.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Peter mumbled. He kept his head low, bangs hiding his eyes from view as apathetically made his way to the cabinets. His flannel pajama pants began to drop on the way; he yanked them up, yawning into his other hand.

Craning his neck behind him, Bucky lifted an eyebrow, watching Peter dump cereal into an over-sized bowl with the milk soon to follow. This kind _— _whatever it was, made noise as milk flooded against it. It crackled and popped, audible like fireworks over the silence that stretched on between them.

Not bothering to look for a seat anywhere else, Peter pulled out a stool opposite side of Bucky at the table. Somehow, he managed to have already stuffed his mouth with three spoonfuls of cereal before ever sitting down.

“You?”

Bucky blinked, otherwise expressionless. It wasn’t often people asked him why he was awake at three in the morning, in the kitchen of a building he didn’t make the decision to live in.

Peter didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead as he chewed fervently, not giving himself time to breathe before digging in for more.

Bucky honestly couldn’t tell if he was staring at him, or beyond him. Possibly lost in his own thoughts, or something more.

He took of a swig of his beer before answering, “Couldn’t sleep.”

The smell of alcohol in the air was strong, or at least it was to Peter. It sat heavily on Bucky’s tongue, whiffing in the air with every word he said, every breath he let out. Peter had a feeling the beer he drank wasn’t his first.

It wasn’t his place to judge. Adults dealt with things differently. He shoveled two or three more spoonfuls of cereal in his mouth, unaware of his movements even as he acted them out. It was anything he could do to distract himself.

With the back of his hand, Peter wiped away the milk that dripped down his chin, smearing it on the flannel of his pants.

Unwittingly, it was in that brief moment where his eyes locked with Bucky. Something was unsettling about the realization that he never actually saw the man _look _at him, not directly, not straight in the eyes.

And yet he was, looking at him. Straight in the eyes.

Hesitatingly, Peter set his spoon down. The _clank _of metal made a gentle echo in the otherwise empty kitchen. Suddenly, his empty hands began to wring together, his heart-rate spiking after just recently getting it to calm down.

“I had this….dream,” Peter began, his voice turbulent at the edges. “I was...I kept drowning.”

A look flashed across Bucky’s face. His eyes flittered from Peter over to the entrance of the doorway. It was as if he subconsciously hoped someone would walk in at three-something in the morning and magically take the conversation away from him.

It was unlikely, but he had seen some pretty unlikely things happen in his lifetime.

Still, he wasn’t surprised when there was nothing, no one to intervene.

So he took a large gulp of his beer instead, sighing.

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Bucky finally managed.

“Yeah...” Peter nodded, watching as the cereal in his bowl began to swirl in aimless circles.While nearly half of it had already been devoured, he had quickly lost his appetite for the rest. He pushed the bowl away.

The discarded spoon began to make a small puddle of milk on the table. He made note to clean it up before leaving.

The kitchen was quiet, but far from silent. The fridge made a low buzzing noise, the lights hummed in their dimly lit state, and the cereal in Peter’s bowl crackled and popped, even as it grew soggier by the second.

“Mine are like that,” Bucky spoke up, so quiet Peter almost didn’t catch it. His voice was rough, grinding like sandpaper. “Always falling.”

He kept his head low, eyes staring intently at the amber beer bottle in his hand. “I never land.”

The words hung in the air.

Peter swallowed down the tightness in his throat, unsure of what to say.

As Bucky took another drink of his beer, he decided for once it was best to stay quiet.

Shifting awkwardly on the bar stool, Peter rubbed at the back of his neck, sore muscles tight at the base of his skull. Tossing and turning all night had left a cramp in his shoulders that he couldn’t seem to massage away.

It was silly, but he had never considered the bad dreams that woke him up so early in the morning to be nightmares in disguise. Just calling them that seemed ominous, somewhat alarming. Like a problem he should probably talk about to someone.

Peter shoved the thought aside, kneading harder at his neck. He could handle this on his own. If that’s what it took to prove he wasn’t just some kid who needed someone to hold his hand all the time, that’s what he was going to do. Maybe then Mr. Stark would finally take him seriously.

A sticky substance caught his attention.

Peter furrowed his brows, pulling his hand away with a grimace. Exhausted, he didn’t take more than a second to examine the sleek, oily gunk that he pulled out from behind his ear. Gross _— _he definitely needed a shower.

He smeared the black slime against his pajama pants, right next to the spot of milk.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well. Looks like our little Spider-kid isn’t handling things as well as he may have thought. Ah well, it’s a good thing he’s on great footing with a fellow billionaire mentor to get him through this rough patch —
> 
> Oh. Ohhhh. Welp. That’s gunna suck, isn’t it?
> 
> (The pieces are slowly coming together now, aren’t they?)
> 
> My amazing friends, the most fantastic, lovely, friggin awesome people I've come to know — we have FINALLY concluded Segment 1. There’s 5 in total so, to say the least, things are JUST getting started.
> 
> Some things for you to look forward and stay tuned to:
> 
> Tony begins to wonder what exactly is going on with his protege. Is this teenage angst or something more?  
Peter’s training with the Avenger’s continues, and it doesn’t end well for his fellow spider-comrade  
But that’s okay. Because none of this ends well for Peter. At all. Especially if he doesn’t tell somebody how sick he is, and soon. Throwing up blood; totally normal, right?  
Panic watch: Activated  
And after months of dealing with the consequences that have come from his slimy work, Tony finally decides to give Norman Osborn a little visit. 
> 
> We ain't stopping, folks. This ball is on a roll.
> 
> On a much more somber note, for those who aren’t aware, I’m a US citizen who works directly in the healthcare industry in a trauma equipped hospital. To say that things have been utterly batshit crazy with all that’s going on would be an understatement. To say that our lives have been flipped upside down would be putting things very lightly. We’re on the front lines of this crisis, and we’re working tirelessly to get everyone healthy and keep everyone healthy. I won’t lie, it currently feels like a downhill battle. Since things are about to get much, much worse over the next few weeks. I wanted to get this chapter out as quickly as I could, because I’m afraid I won’t have much free time in my near future to sit down and write. 
> 
> Of course, don’t ever think this story will be forgotten or abandoned. That’s damn near impossible. It’s holding me hostage and I promise you, if you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. Just bear with me. It’s going to be a rough couple of weeks.
> 
> And most importantly, stay safe. Wash your hands. Stay indoors. Please, lighten the burden of my job and the jobs of many others. We’ll get through this, but it takes everyone doing their part.
> 
> I LOVE YOU ALL!!!!


	9. Gray Area

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really, really, really awful at responding to everyone’s comments. I am super sorry for that. It makes me feel like shit I need you all to know that, because I appreciate you all SO friggin much that I just can't put it into words. To say the least, things are CRAZY at work. My state is getting hit hard with Covid-19 and as a healthcare worker, it’s made our jobs so much harder. Time is getting away from me like you wouldn’t believe and if I have one hour in my day, I’m trying my damnest to spend it writing this, and unfortunately that comes at the sacrifice of not responding directly to comments. I WILL get to it, I promise.
> 
> If I haven’t gotten around to replying to your comment personally, please know that I’m not ignoring you. I legit read everyone’s comments every morning and every night, and every time I open the latest chapter to write I do the same. I’m constantly re-reading all of your reviews. They’re truly my fuel to writing this and I cannot thank you enough. 
> 
> With that said, starting the second phase of this story (five in total) I gotta say it's going to be one of my favorites. Not THE favorite, of course. Oh no, that's chapter 23. If you all remember back with Identity Theft, I hyped up Grace Under Pressure (chapter 18) a LOT for that story -- when Tony and Steve saved Peter from the bunker. Let me just say, ALL of this segment builds up to what I'm hoping will be the best damn climax I ever write. It's going to get really suspenseful from here on out. Things are going to get tense, it's going to be rough, you're going to want to yell at the characters and definitely yell at me -- and please do! Scream at me in the comments! -- but all this is leading into something so awesome. I hope you all stick around for the ride. 
> 
> A huge thanks to [Dragonnan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan) for helping me with the oddest of things, like 2am Discord requests of "what insult would Tony say in this situation?" and even assisting my awkward ass with bumbling, nerdy flirting between Peter and MJ. Two heads are so much better than one and she definitely helps sprinkle on the bits of awesome you see in this fic!
> 
> And a shout-out to the lovely [silentsaebyeok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsaebyeok/pseuds/silentsaebyeok) for being the proudest Aunt May fan out there, and a co-parenting Irondad fan at that! We respect Aunt May in this fandom, and this first scene is definitely dedicated to her!
> 
> Okay, now I need ya'll to buckle your seat-belts if you haven't already.
> 
> Cause the whump starts now.

Tony scoffed. “Likely story.”

“What’s a likely story?”

Looking up from his cell phone just as their waiter walked away, Tony lifted an eyebrow high. A tall, fully filled champagne flute had been set down across from him, the bright orange liquid inside glimmering with the reflection of sunlight.

“Is that your third mimosa?” he asked.

May raised her eyebrow right back at him.

“Depends,” she said, glass half-way to her lips. “You still paying?”

Tony made a face, one mostly hidden behind the high-tech, plum-tinted sunglasses resting across his eyes. He nodded, as if the question was ridiculous enough that it didn’t warrant a vocal response.

May smiled, though not before taking a slow, drawn-out sip of the brightly colored cocktail. “Than yes, it’s my third mimosa.”

Tony shook his head with a sigh heavily restrained, a weak smile barely creeping on the corners of his lips. He stuffed his cell phone within the insides of his blazer, carefully smoothing out the dark, black fabric.

“By all means, drink up,” he encouraged, raising his glass of water up in the air for a mock-toast. “A little sauce is the least I can do. Anything for the headache that you’ve miraculously tamed after years of dealing with this troublesome little shit of a teenager you call your nephew.”

May laughed, clinking her glass against his as they both sipped on their respective drinks. The clouds from overhead began to partway, the early afternoon sun peaking down with a gold shimmer, covering the terrace area of the Manhattan cafe.

Tony pushed his sunglasses up higher, debating on whether or not it was worth asking for a seat elsewhere. Between knowing that the paparazzi would jump them if they moved, and watching May take another long sip of her mimosa, he decided that a little sunshine wouldn’t hurt their brunch.

‘_Co-parenting catch-up _ _ ’ _as Pepper had called it — and arranged it, which was no surprise for the woman who could do anything, and everything. An obligation set forth by his fiancée had quickly become an ingrained habit, his monthly brunches with May a time where they could both discuss issues and concerns they were having with a certain spider-kid of theirs.

Granted, Tony didn’t think May would be so literal with her suggestion of co-parenting. He had assumed weekends at the compound would be more professional than anything else, a necessary duty in making sure the kid had the means to not get himself killed when going about his vigilante business.

It didn’t take him long to recognize things were much, much more than that. It was realized roughly around the same time Wilson was cooking the kid chocolate pancakes for breakfast, and Natasha insisting at least half of the group be around for dinner.

It was weird.

But a good weird.

Tony pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose — he’d never in a million years think he’d need someone to share the frustrations of raising a mutated teenager. He’d take the loss of normalcy, considering the fact May was still letting Peter gallop around the city as Queen’s local superhero despite all that had gone down recently.

“I’m thinking of writing a book,” he mentioned, carefully folding his arms across his chest. “_How to raise your novice superhero kid._ That way whatever moron follows in my footsteps won’t have to deal with the consistent migraine I can’t seem to shake form all these hurdles. Although, it probably wouldn’t look good next to my autobiography, _cheap tricks and oneliners._”

May snorted, her lips twitching with a smile that she tried to hide beneath her glass. “I knew it.”

A slight crease formed between his brows. “Knew what?”

“Knew you wouldn’t last long.” She shot him a smug look, her chin raised high with a friendly sense of brass and cheek.

Tony gaped, feigning dramatic offense with small amount of honesty coated around it.

“Excuse me,” he stated, his hand planted flatly and firmly across his chest. “I lasted a whole month on the road with that little twerp. And you of all people should know that he does _not _use deodorant as often as he needs to. Thus, I deserve at least half the credit you do for surviving those thirty days dealing with his B.O and still having my nostrils remain intact. Nose hairs singed off, of course.”

“Uh huh,” May nodded, her smirk growing. “And now?”

Tony paused, eyeing the half-eaten and certainly now cold egg and cheese soufflé on the plate below him, crushed up by the fork that sat on the side. He was pretty sure that his expression must have looked just as torn up, as May immediately set down her champagne flute with a frown.

“Something tells me this brunch isn’t going to be all curfew talk,” she said, only briefly looking away once realizing a couple seated at the table nearby were gawking at them both.

Beneath his sunglasses, Tony rolled his eyes. The momentary distraction didn’t last long, the waiter of whom he had slipped a few hundred dollars quickly addressing the situation and saving them any headache. It had become as routine as his monthly brunches with May.

In fact, he was pretty sure that he had paid for the new shoes the waiter was wearing. Interesting choice in what to spend the extraneous tip money on. Tony would have gone for a savings or stock, but that was neither here nor there and —

He sighed, running his hand through his goatee. His mind always wandered when avoiding problems he didn’t want to deal with.

“Has Peter talked to you at all since Sunday?” Tony abruptly asked, looking at his water and pessimistically wishing it was something slightly stronger.

May paused at the question, looking away with thoughtful consideration. Ultimately, she shook her head.

“I’m lucky to see him grab a frozen waffle on the way out of the door,” she chuckled slightly. “Still frozen. Boy rolls right out of bed, doesn’t give himself any time to throw something in the toaster. It’s truly amazing how he’s not all skin and bones.”

Despite her attempt at lightening the mood, Tony’s somber expression didn’t change. He continued to graze his fingers through the prickle hair of his goatee, his sunglasses unable to hide his far-off stare.

May frowned, her eyebrows dipping with concern. “What happened?”

The persistent tapping of his Louis Vuitton dress shoes filled the pause between them. The same dress shoes the waiter wore, walking by to fill his glass of water on the table. Tony squinted one eye, distantly wondering if it was a flattery thing or if the college-aged boy just wanted to buy the most expensive item he could get his hands on.

Distraction. Right.

Tony cleared his throat a few times, briefly considering taking a sip of his drink before deciding to just rip off the bandied.

“We got into an argument,” he grudgingly admitted.

May’s demeanor softened almost immediately. She waved him off with a half-hearted smile.

“I told you not to let him eat whatever he wants. He gets irritable and gassy and —”

“He had a panic attack.”

May’s face dropped.

“What?” her words were practically spoken in a breath, confusion speaking volumes.

Tony sighed, shrugging with such force that his sunglasses slipped a little further down his nose. He didn’t reach to move them up.

“He’s...expectantly denying it now.” Tony scratched at his cheek, focusing on the sights from within the cafe as opposed to where May was seated. Somehow, it was easier to watch barista’s inside fumble with making a late. “But he did. Have one.”

It was the most he could manage without feeling uncomfortable, or more uncomfortable than what he already felt. Despite having a good four monthly _‘__Co-parenting Catch-ups’_ under their belt, Tony had yet to encounter a time where he and May needed to discuss something beyond surface level.

Grades, curfews, not to mention pushing her to allow him responsibility for the cost of school tuition and the likes that came with it — their conversations had yet to reach a level quite this deep.

He looked down at his glass of water. Sobriety be damned, he officially regretted not getting a cocktail himself.

May appeared to have trouble letting the information sink in, her face twisting and contorting without ever settling on one specific emotion or the other.

“Are you sure —”

“Yeah,” Tony interrupted, straightening in his chair with faux pose. “I’m kinda the expert. Know one to call one, and all.”

May sat on the news. Though she seemed surprisingly less startled than Tony had expected to be, her moment of reflection hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“That’s strange.” She raised her glass to her lips, the action of her swallowing visible, followed by another mouthful done only to buy herself time. “He hasn’t mentioned that at all.”

Tony nodded. “Not surprised. I want to say he’s embarrassed — hell, I know he’s embarrassed. Stormed out on me, started ignoring my texts, won’t even give Happy much time of day. And you know something’s up when Happy’s questioning why the kid isn’t nagging him.”

It was going on four days, and as of five minutes ago, there was only one text message conversation between them. This was the same kid who spammed Tony’s phone with ridiculous questions and memes at all times of the day. Now, radio silence.

The entire incident still seemed to boggle Tony’s mind. He wanted to think that it wasn’t like Peter to behave that way, that something had gotten into him recently to provoke such an outburst. But the further he looked back, the more he realized the signs were building up.

The kid _was _pissed a few weekends back when he had been grounded.

And the panic attack — well, he had been waiting for that since the moment they rescued the kid from drowning waters.

“What was it about?”

Tony looked up, caught off guard. “Huh?”

May crossed her legs, making sure not to bump into the small metal table between them.

“The fight,” she specified.

Tony pointed a finger her way. “Argument —”

“I know you, Stark,” May said, the smile on her lips breaking any tension from her words. “It was a fight. Deets, now.”

Tony audibly groaned, rubbing at his forehead with his index finger and thumb, his eyes tightly pinched shut.

“Oh god, you talk like one of them.” He gestured his hand out to nothing in particular. “Is this contagious? Will I be next? Should I forewarn Pepper — oh God, don’t tell me I’ll pass it onto her. I _cannot _have a forty-three-year-old woman representing the company who talks like some Gen Z tween. Our stocks will tank.”

Tony cracked one eye open, not the least bit surprised to see May staring him down, the brown strands of hair that had fallen in front of her face somehow making her seem more intimidating. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Pepper was giving her lessons on the side.

Not fair. As if his fiancée wasn’t difficult enough to handle on her own.

He waited until after the waiter took their plates before talking again.

“I just...I don’t want him interacting with a certain individual,” Tony finally admitted, pulling at his blazer jacket to smooth out wrinkles that weren’t there. “We have a new guest at the compound, and I think it’s in Peter’s best interest if they don’t associate. For whatever reason that seemed to get his boxer briefs in a bunch, suddenly we’re throwing words, and the next thing I know he’s...” he trailed off, noticeably clearly his throat a few times before managing, “...yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie.

It also omitted some of the truth.

But Tony was known to do that.

Besides, he couldn’t open the can of worms that was The Osborn's. Not without May discovering details no one but himself and the team knew about. And it needed to stay that way. The fewer people who knew, the safer they’d be.

Regardless of what caused the argument — who was he kidding, she was right. It was a full-blown fight. Tony liked to think he had seen a lot of Peter’s behavior over the last year. From the high highs to the low lows. From him freaking out over his aunt discovering he had a superhero side gig to freaking out because Captain America passed him a plate of waffles. He had come to realize early on that the kid had intense emotions, riding either the positives or negatives to the extreme.

Yet nothing he could think of came remotely close to the other night. It was a whole other side of Peter. A new side, he was sure. One developing all thanks to the trauma this lifestyle was giving him.

No matter how hard he tried, Tony still had regrets bringing him into this.

May didn’t give him much time to reflect. She huffed a laugh so hard that he could have sworn he smelt citrus and alcohol whiff out from her mouth.

“Oh, there’s so much more to that than you’re letting on.”

Tony rolled his eyes, leaning forward to grab the stem of the champagne glass in front of her. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

May pulled it back just in time, smirking. “I’m having just the right amount for this conversation.”

With a glare that matched the sun’s intensity, Tony’s head dipped low, his purple-tinted sunglasses sliding down to show his brown eyes squinting with resentment.

May fell silent for a moment, though the grin plastered on her face only dimmed slightly. With a sigh, one less heavy than how Tony felt, she crossed her legs and adjusted her sundress, looking him head-on.

“Tony,” she started, “what really happened?”

Damn – Tony ran a hand along the side of his hair, smoothing down the salt and pepper he knew was noticeable in the afternoon light. He had to give credit where credit was due; May Parker had one hell of an impressive bullshit meter. If _he _couldn’t get past the woman, then there was no way in hell the kid would ever stand a chance.

The Manhattan traffic clogging the streets nearby kept the silence between them from reaching uncomfortable levels. A gridlock of cars blared their horns, folks hollered for taxis, and others went about their day, conversations of the likes taking place as close as four feet away from where they were seated.

Tony looked around, looked anywhere but in front of him where May sat. All things considered, this was a nice cafe. Quaint little outside dining area, friendly staff, decent food. Rogers had actually been the one to recommend it to him. Said it was his favorite spot in the city, where he could sit in peace and sketch some art.

And here he was, so quick to ruin the experience with an intimate one-on-one that would make his skin crawl.

Clearing his throat, Tony leaned closer against the bistro table, resting his forearms down on the rough metal surface.

May waited, not doing so much as twiddle her thumbs despite the pause that stretched on between them.

“After the whole...Battle of New York incident five years ago...” he sniffed, hard. “I started having some, uh..._issues._”

What an understatement that was — his fingers tapped along the metal groves of the table, distracting him from the cynical voice inside his head.

“Didn’t realize how much flying a nuke into space would mess up my psyche. Never would’ve thought that seeing what was on the other side of the exosphere would be what finally cracked the eggshell. Probably wouldn’t have done it had I’d known. I mean, who am I kidding, definitely would have still done it, no question about it, one and done – easily. Maybe would’ve just made better choices? Given it a big push instead of following it through the wormhole, closed my eyes once I got there — but whacha gunna do, hindsight's a bitch. Twenty-twenty and all that,” Tony rambled, his eyes narrowing tightly as his brows curved close together.

“The point I’m trying to make here — and I have a point, really, I’m not just airing out dirty laundry for the sake of...I don’t know, whatever people do with laundry — the point _is_...”

Tony took off his sunglasses with one hand and scrubbed at his face with the other. Even with his eyes closed, the sun seemed much brighter without them on.

“After all that happened, suddenly...things changed. I changed. Something as simple as the word _‘alien’_ would set me off. And I don’t mean the kind of being-set-off that you’d see from me on CNN during those weapon manufacturing court trials. I mean...” Tony gestured wildly with his hands, letting out a deep sigh of frustration. “Tell me you know what I mean, because I don’t normally do _this,_” he waved a hand frantically back and forth between them, “and the more I talk, the more I feel like an idiot so hopefully my point is coming across —”

“I know what you mean,” May thankfully cut in, a ghost of a smile tracing across her lips.

“Good,” he nodded, his shoulders dropping down to his toes, relief easing the burden against his back. “That’s good. Because what I’m getting at...the point here is...it wasn’t...pretty. It wasn’t _me. _I mean, it was me, but me-with-PTSD, which isn’t...normally...me.” Tony shook his head, leaning back into his chair with a deep breath. “Bless Pepper’s patient heart, she put up with that hot mess and the many, many, _many _therapy sessions it took before returning to my semi-normal self again. It certainly didn’t happen overnight. Hell, I don’t know if it’ll actually ever end. A very fluid situation, very...day-to-day.”

Floundering for what he’d say next, Tony stopped talking long enough for the city sounds to flow between them again. Someone laid down on the horn of their car with eager frustration, and he nearly jumped out of his chair.

May simply stayed seated, waiting for the next stream of incoherent babbling.

His eyes fell to the ground where he fiddled with the sunglasses in his hands. There was no doubt about it, he had to give it to May for listening patiently, letting him detour left and right, digress when what he needed to say could have been clear, cut, and dry.

He also understood why Pepper was the first to interrupt when he let his thoughts get away from him. Without her, he’d never shut up.

“I’m not..._not _taking responsibility for my part in the argument with Peter. At the end of the day, he’s a teenager, and teenagers don’t like being told what to do, right? That’s not even a question, God knows I was the worst teenager to exist on this earth, hell, this universe. When compared to me, he can only go up. Way up.” Tony tossed his sunglasses down onto the bistro table, worried that if he kept waving them around in the air, he’d end up snapping them in half. “The argument wasn’t really the problem — it _was, _but it wasn’t. The thing is...I know what I said right before _it _happened. Before he got upset. It was like looking in a mirror, five years ago...having heard someone say the word_ alien_.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

For the first time since talking, Tony looked May head-on, exposed eyes telling her everything she needed to know.

“Damn,” she muttered, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “So...what’s his _alien_?”

Tony blew a deep breath of air through his cheeks, the few napkins still lying on their table tossing onto the ground.

“I brought up the whole...kidnapped, shish-kebabed, nearly dying thing,” Tony said, his voice heavy. “And by the way he reacted, I think it’s finally catching up to him.”

Surprisingly, May kept a straight face at the news. She looked to the left where the traffic passed by, reaching for the stem of her mimosa glass only to decide against it. Her unease, though, was a dead giveaway as she tapped her heel relentlessly against the ground.

“He _did _have a great distraction over the summer,” she mentioned, managing a small shrug. “Between hanging out with the World Renowned Avengers and going on a tour of the country with you, he didn’t really have time to let anything sink in.”

Tony stared ahead, nodding his head with little feeling.

May uncrossed her legs, the tapping finally coming to stop. “We said it was going to happen sooner or later, right?”

The reality of the situation was alerting, trickling into his brain in ways that he failed to make sense of. Tony’s eyes darted back over to May, a line in his forehead forming at the stress of it all.

“Yeah, but...” he trailed off, unsure of what else to say. _But it wasn’t supposed to be now? But I thought we were in the clear? _

_But I’m not ready for this?_

He sighed, giving his head a small shake.

How was someone as messed up as him supposed to bring someone else out to the other side?

“Peter ever been to therapy?” he asked, so suddenly that May was taken aback.

She blinked, running a hand up and down her arm before nodding. “At one point, yes. After his parents died. Stopped once he turned ten. I suggested he go back after Ben’s death, but...he didn’t want to.”

Tony paused, considering her words. “Why didn’t you make him?”

May shrugged, sitting up a little bit straighter in her chair, pulling at her sundress to cover her knees.

“Like I said...he didn’t want to.”

A weight heavier than his Iron Man armor pulled at Tony’s shoulders, the realization digging deep into his chest. It twisted and tugged at his gut, and the longer it occupied his mind, the worst he felt.

He leaned back, humming while his fingers pulled through his goatee.

That wasn’t his childhood.

Growing up, when Howard told him what to do, it was a matter of doing it or getting a Scotch thrown in his direction. Maria could only do so much, the only adult that would ever question her husband’s authority. It wasn’t until he went to college at the ripe age of fifteen that he started putting his foot down. He didn’t have much longer to test the waters of what he could and couldn’t disobey.

By then, Obie was the one to boss him around. A literal boss, in every sense of the word.

His childhood was no example to go off of, and yet the only experience he held in his back pocket. It was the absolute worst one he could possibly use. And he had been using it. He had been bossing Peter around when the kid didn’t need to be treated that way — didn’t _deserve _to be treated that way.

Maybe he shouldn’t have grounded him over that party incident, maybe he should have done something else – anything else.

He just didn’t know what.

Christ, Tony had no idea how to navigate this. He wasn’t the one who should be writing a book, he was the one who needed to be reading one.

“The kid’s really been put through the wringer in his life,” Tony needlessly mentioned, making no judgments as May finished off her mimosa with a satisfied exhale.

“He has. But it seems every time life knocks him down, he gets right back up. Stronger than before.” May set down the empty glass and forced a grin that felt a little too tense. “He’s a tough cookie.”

Tony arched an eyebrow. “Even cookies crumble at some point.”

“Not the ones I bake,” she gave a lopsided smile. “You should try them, hard as rocks.”

Tony managed a small laugh, raising his glass of water to her in another mock salute. He set it down after a small sip, bringing his sunglasses back to his face with ease. The plum-tinted lenses masked the concern that drowned out his brown pupils, speaking more than his words ever could.

May noticed, kicking his leg gently underneath the table.

“He’ll be okay, Tony,” she insisted.

Her attempt at calming his nerves was ineffectual. Tony internalized his sign, sniffing hard just as a taxi cab blasted its horn at the surrounding traffic.

“You’ll have to excuse my lack of faith,” he said, casting a wary eye at her. “The kid already has an accumulating history of bad-shit-happening-to-him. Add this to an already fragile House of Cards, and it’s doomed to collapse. Trust me, I would know...the thing I didn’t expect to break me did just that.”

Tony shifted in his chair, uncomfortable both physically, and especially mentally. He didn’t like to think about Peter becoming him. He liked to think he was doing everything in his power _not _to let that happen. The world didn’t need another self-destructive, barely put together Tony Stark. It needed someone better, someone like the man he knew Peter could become.

If only he could stop adding damage to the kid before that could happen.

“So what are you going to do now?”

Tony perked up, confused by May’s question.

May gestured her hand out to him. “You’ve checked in to see how he’s doing, right?”

Tony’s eyes went wide.

“_Yes. _Constantly!” he stressed. “The kid has completely turned the tables. He went from blowing up my phone six, seven, eight times a day and now I'm the one doing it to him. Do you know how insulting that is, to reduce _me _to the likes of a teenager with no boundaries?”

May let out a strained laugh. “That’s the problem. You’re nagging him.”

Tony gaped, hand smacking across his chest with dramatic effect. “I am not —!”

“You gotta back off, ease off the gas pedal a little,” May plowed right over him, clearly taking the hint that letting Tony talk for too long was a bad thing. Smart woman, catching on fast. “Peter works best when you’re present, but not when you’re in his face. Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way.”

There was no room for argument. Tony trusted May, if only for the fact that she had a good ten-some-years of parenting under her belt. Despite her always insisting that she was no good at the job, Tony remained in awe at her skill set. The capability she possessed to handle and defuse even the worst of situations with a teenager who had a heart too big for his own good — let’s just say that he may be able to create clean energy for all of New York, but he was far away from being able to do even one percent of what she could.

“Don’t push him, Tony. You might end up just pushing him away.” May gave him a soft smile, pinching her fingers together as she exampled, “You gotta find that gray area.”

Tony looked up, eyebrow arched high.

“Gray area?”

The irony of her words smacked him so hard against the head they might as well have been Cap’s shield bouncing off his skull.

“Yeah.” May nodded. “Don’t let yourself be one extreme or the other. It’s not good cop, bad cop. You gotta find that gray area between not quite in his face about everything but not so far back that he’ll get into trouble. Peter works best with balance.”

“That’s...” Tony shook his head, trying to hold back the laughter that bubbled up in his chest. “That’s about right.”

If only the version of himself from back then could see him now. Tony wasn’t sure he’d believe it, the past year and a half providing such drastic change to them all. For the better, of course. Or so he liked to think.

“What’s about right?” May asked, nodding an unspoken thank you to the waiter as he dropped off their check along with a small plate of candy mints.

Tony didn’t grace the question with an answer.

Instead, he was quick to digress, “So how long?”

May’s brow wrinkled a bit with confusion. “How long what?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know.” Tony barely looked her way as he slid his credit card into the server book. “How long you been in cahoots with my Forehead of Security?"

It was May’s turn to gape, her jaw dropping to the ground. “I am not —!”

“Oh, please. Give me _some _credit, Ms. Parker,” Tony’s eyes glinted even beneath the tinted lenses of his glasses, and he unwrapped a candy mint with ease, popping it into his mouth with a smirk. “Those hydrangeas I saw sitting on your kitchen table were _not _from the local market.”

May shook her head and clicked her tongue, drawing a smile that seemed to be more from disbelief than anything else.

“How’d you know?”

“Promise me you won’t get upset?”

She hesitated on a nod.

Tony leaned back into his chair, the mint swirling around in his mouth as formed a grin.

“Hydrangeas are Happy’s go-to for the second date.”

May purposely looked away, the pink blush that spread across her cheeks a clear indicator of embarrassment. It nearly matched the peach color of her sundress.

Tony wouldn’t deny having taken a little bit of pleasure in that.

"_Two _dates,” he stressed. “When you going to tell the kid?”

May leveled him with a slightly insulted look.

“_Not _right now. He’s got way too much going on, he’ll...not right now. And you best not tell him either, Mister,” she wagged a stern finger his direction. “Besides, it’s just a fling. Nothing serious. By the time Peter finds out, we probably won’t even be seeing each other anymore.”

Tony crossed his arms, staring straight at her even as the waiter took the server book from the table.

“Hm-hm.”

May frowned. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Tony insisted, shrugging.

“You said hm-hm.”

“Again, I didn’t say anything,” he clarified. “That’s not a word.”

May groaned, shaking her head with embellished frustration. She looked off at the Manhattan traffic, caught red-handed with her hand in the cookie jar. Or that’s how Tony was looking at her anyway, smug as ever.

He brushed this thumb against his nose. “All I have to say is you’re not allowed to get married before Pepper and me.”

May scoffed, leaning forward for a mint of her own. “All bets are off if you keep postponing that wedding.”

* * *

“You’re hot.”

Peter jumped in surprise, startled into dropping his phone right out of his hands. It crashed onto the gym floor, bouncing carelessly with surprising effect. When it finally came to a stop, it landed screen-up, the reflection of his face almost taunting him.

Darn it. So much for not cracking the screen again.

“Uh, thanks?” Peter squeaked out, turning around to face the sudden presence that stood behind him. “I think?”

Clint rolled his eyes so hard they may as well have popped right out of the sockets.

“No, itsy bitsy, though I can tell you’re dying for a compliment.” He titled his head to the side, the crow’s feet against his eyes deepening.“You’re warm. You okay?”

Peter eyed Clint briefly, the look of concern written across his features almost making him forget how intimidating the archer looked while in a sleeveless t-shirt. For someone who ate birthday cake like there was no tomorrow, the guy certainly kept his guns polished and loaded.

“Yeah, just...just nerves,” Peter answered, bending down to retrieve his fallen phone. He really needed to get a case for this thing.“You know, first time really training with — hey, what are you doing!”

Peter hadn’t even gotten a chance to stand up straight before Clint smacked his open palm straight across his forehead.

What the — was this real life?

“Awww, look at daddy Robin Hood,” Natasha called out from across the gym, grinning ear-to-ear as she stretched her leg behind her back.

Peter immediately turned five different shades of red. The last time he remembered being this embarrassed had to be in the sixth-grade, the infamous de-pantsing in the cafeteria finally renouncing its spot of ultimate humiliation.

He was quick to slap Clint’s hand away from his cheeks.

“Dude, I’m fine,” he practically hissed, ducking away from Clint’s second attempt to check his temperature. All the while, Natasha chuckled at them both.

Seriously? Peter slouched his shoulders as he quickly made his way to the bleachers, stuffing his phone inside his duffle bag with a disgruntled sigh. This was not how he wanted to start his start-over training session.

“Will you stop trying to impress these two,” Clint jested, folding his arms across his chest. “They ain’t got nothing on you. Old Man Cap falls asleep with a newspaper in his lap, and Tasha is one peanut butter sandwich away from being vitamin deficient.”

“I resent that,” Natasha spoke up, approaching them both with her own duffle bag slung over her shoulder. She dropped it down next to Peter’s at the bleachers. “Besides, you _love _my peanut butter sandwiches when you’re not being fed a home-cooked, Pioneer Woman country-styled meal. Remind me again what happened the last time _you _tried to cook?”

Peter laughed, hiding it underneath a fake cough and looking away as Natasha’s smirk grew larger. He was pretty sure Clint was giving her the stink eye, but he didn’t dare risk the chance of seeing it for himself.

“The bottom of the pan was burnt,” Clint defended.

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “Pretty sure it was just the food that was burnt.”

“It’s not my fault Stark can’t provide proper cooking utensils in this place —”

“Oh, those pans were _brand_ new —”

“Exactly! They were covered in chemicals, and plastic coating and — you gotta have a good cast iron in your home, one properly seasoned —”

“You ready, Parker?”

Peter snapped his head up with lightning speed, looking towards the threshold of the gym with wide eyes.

Steve walked towards them, casually stretching one arm out to the side before switching to the other. His basic white t-shirt looked like it was one tug away from ripping at the seams, muscles so broad that Peter felt like small bug standing next to him.

No pun intended.

“Yes, sir!” Peter called out, adjusting the sweatband wrapped around his forehead with shaking fingers. He _really _hoped no one noticed how nervous he was, brushing his sweaty palms against his pants in a desperate attempt to stay cool. Yet the more he worried they might notice, the more nervous he became.

God, this sucked. Why couldn’t he just be chill about this? It wouldn’t be so bad if he was in his costume; the mask always seemed to help with his confidence. There was just something about being regular, dorky, average Peter Parker around the Avengers that made him feel so...inadequate.

Steve’s smile easily bled out any stress that had been building up in the room. He stopped a few feet from where Peter stood and placed his hands on his hips, looking down at the young teenager with gentle patience.

“Good,” he noted. “We got a lot of work to do today.”

Nodding a few times too many, Peter felt his throat run dry, his gulp feeling like hay was being shoved down his throat. Really coarse, dry, and itchy hay.

And he only brought one water bottle. He knew he should have brought more than one water bottle.

He was definitely going to need more than one bottle of water.

Within a few minutes, Steve had the three of them standing in a triangle, placing himself dead center in the middle.

Peter’s eyes never once stopped darting around, the four of them barely taking up any space in the large gymnasium. It was huge, at least twice as big as the gym at school. It almost felt weird, just being them, such a large space under-utilized for an hour-long training session.

Unless Cap was planning to bring out like, training robots or something. Holy crap, that’d be awesome.

And terrifying. Super terrifying.

Panicked at the thought, Peter’s baggy t-shirt quickly began sticking to him with sweat. He discreetly checked his armpits for B.O — he never put on enough deodorant.

“I’ve had the opportunity of seeing you fight before, Parker.”

The voice echoed in the gymnasium, bouncing off the walls and catching Peter’s attention.

“To see how well your skill-set is put to use in the middle of a crisis,” Steve proclaimed, his tone serious, lined with a sturdiness that only a leader could have. “You’re good. But you can always do better.”

Peter shakily nodded. “Yes, Steve – Captain...sir.”

Steve placed his arms behind his back, folding his hands together. “Tell me, son. How often do you rely on your powers during a fight?”

Peter frowned, pausing with contemplation. It felt like a trick question. Or did they _want _him to think it was a trick question and answer it like it was a trick question? And oh my god, why had it gotten so warm in here? He was quickly becoming drenched in his own sweat, and could only hope his Old Spice deodorant was up for the challenge.

“Uhm...uh, all the time? I think?” he swallowed, desperate to moisten a dry mouth.

Natasha raised her chin high, looking at him from where she stood at the front of the triangle.

“Your advantage shouldn’t become your standard,” she explained, straightening her posture and pulling back her shoulders. Peter mimicked the pose. “There are too many variables in place for members like yourself.”

“Lose your powers, and then what?” Clint went on to ask, appearing much more relaxed compared to the rest of them. He stood to Peter’s left, his arms crossed casually across his chest. “You’ve already seen what it’s like to be up against a bad guy without that sixth sense of yours. You become an Average Joe like the rest of us, and you’re gunna have to fight like it.”

Peter nodded, this time with much less enthusiasm.

They just _had_ to bring that up.

His eyes fell to the floor, locking onto the dirt that had stuck to his Adidas tennis shoes. He understood why they’d mention that, but there was no diminishing the embarrassment that came from hearing it. It felt like everyone had been bringing it up lately, shoving it in his face when all he wanted to do was forget it.

Just when he thought he was getting ahead of things, climbing a ladder that put him up with _The Avengers_ of all people, the mention of what happened a few months back would knock him right back down to where he started.

“Don’t worry,” Steve spoke up, as if sensing his frustration. “Wanda, Sam, even Tony — they’ve all been taught how to defend themselves in the case of losing their advantage. It’s a necessity. A must for survival.”

“Think of it this way, Spidey,” Clint started. The mention of Peter’s superhero nickname noticeably lit up his face again, and he managed a tiny smile. “Run-of-the-mill street criminals versus intergalactic invasions...you’re good at the former, definitely need improvement for the latter.”

Peter’s eyes grew wide. “Wait, I’m...you think...I’ll be helping you guys with like...aliens and stuff?”

Steve stepped to the side and smiled.

“Only one way to get you there.”

Natasha was running towards him before he could blink.

“Holy —!”

Peter tumbled to the side, barely dodging Natasha as her ballerina slippers almost made direct contact with his head. He could feel the breeze of air waft against his ears as he barely slid to the floor in time to avoid having his skull crushed by her legs.

Oh god, here they went again.

Peter spun around on his knees, eyes locked straight ahead on Natasha. His heart was one beat away from exploding in his chest, pounding frantically, beating laboriously. He stared at her, unable to look away, unable to let himself blink.

‘_Don’t panic,’ _he chanted to himself. _‘Don’t panic, don’t panic.’ _

Her body stayed crouched low to the ground alongside him, barely ten feet apart. It was just the two of them; Clint and Steve had departed to stand near the bleachers.

Peter jerked his head towards them with a slight look of betrayal. If he didn’t know better, Clint was one popcorn bucket away from enjoying the show.

So not cool.

A change in the air could be felt before Peter ever looked back at Natasha.

A rush of wind brushed against his face. Strands of his hair fell into his eyes, his sweatband proving to be of no use.

Natasha advanced towards him, hard footsteps pounding against the gym floors as she leaped for a second attack.

Peter didn’t move.

His fingers pressed firmly to the floor, unmoving from his squat, counting each breath he drew into his lungs. Natasha was mere inches from him, milliseconds before she’d tackle him.

It wasn’t until she made that move that Peter jumped high, somersaulting over her with ease.

She glided past him, slippers sending her into a skid.

“You’re avoiding her, Spider-man!” Steve called out, sounding every bit as red, white, and blue as Mr. Stark would mock him to be. “That’s dodging, not fighting!”

Peter’s eyebrows knitted tightly together. “Doesn’t that count for something — _achk!_”

Natasha had him in a headlock.

It was both frightening and enthralling at the same time.

Peter gasped for air, weakly pulling at her arms, his feet faltering to find a grip against the floor. There was no doubt about it; Ned was going to flip his lid when he found out about this.

“She can take it, dude!” Clint shouted his way. “If you’re worried about hitting a girl, _trust me _— Tasha doesn’t count!”

Natasha snapped her head towards him, frowning with insult. “Hey — _opfh!_”

Peter snuck out of her grasp, elbowing her straight in the stomach.

Despite the need for haste, he still took a second to commend the fact that he punched the Black Widow. Whenever the day came for him to write his memoirs, this moment was definitely going in them.

Clint clapped his hands from across the gym. “There ya go, Spidey!”

“Quiet,” Steve warned, his expression flickering with a sternness. “You’re going to break his focus.”

The thumping of pounding footsteps echoed the gym. Back-flips and somersaults created a resounding effect of body weight slamming against the ground as Peter desperately tried to avoid Natasha’s ruthless assaults.

“This is moral support, that’s what you wanted me here for,” Clint defended, eyes never looking away from the fight taking place. “Kid just needs a little bit of encouragement, a little something to get him going.”

A loud _THUD _suddenly shook the room, along with a squeak so high-pitched it could have very well been a bird.

Peter cried out as he slid across the ground. His backside glided so smoothly it the floors might have well been an ice skating rink. The momentum didn’t slow, not until he came close to both Steve and Clint’s feet, his ruffled brown hair touching the tips of Steve’s boots.

Eyes wide and face dripping with sweat, he wordlessly looked up at them, and the ceiling. His breathing was rough, his chest heaving with lungs that felt constricted.

This was so much worse than gym class at school. This was an _actual _challenge.

Clint smiled, tapping his shoe against Peter’s shoulder. “Doing great, bud!”

Feeling flushed and hot, sticky with sweat, a butt that was surely bruised, and seriously – _very, very, hot _– Peter glared up at Clint, drawing out a long, irritated groan.

“You’re pulling your punches.” Steve offered him a hand up, helping Peter un-peel himself from the gym floor. Once standing back on his two feet, he rested his hand against Peter’s shoulder. “Barton’s right. She can take it.”

“Yeah,” Peter panted, suddenly unable to get enough oxygen. “But can I!?”

Steve didn’t have the chance to answer.

With one swift tug, Natasha yanked Peter back towards her, twisting his body around until his arms were tangled into hers and there was no seeing left from right.

He didn’t hesitate to stomp on her feet, wiggling out from her grasp as she swore something in Russian that could _not _have been a good word in English.

Peter stumbled backward. His breaths were heavy, the sweat on his skin now dripping in a free flow. He wasn’t panicked — he wasn’t, he swore wasn’t. Stressed, maybe. Anxious, definitely. Nervous, absolutely. Dizzy, definitely dizzy. The longer Steve and Clint watched him from afar, the worst he felt. His arms were shaking, palms clammy — _god, _he felt awful.

“Tap out,” Steve called from the bleachers.

Peter’s shoulders dropped down to his feet. “Oh, thank god —”

“Not you.” Steve’s voice took on a dangerously low tone, his approach bringing with him a different energy than what Peter was used to.

He looked to Natasha, his eyes narrowed with confusion.

She winked at him before walking away.

Wait — where was she —?

“Are we finished?” Peter timidly asked, wiping the sweat away from his eyes with the back of his hand.

Steve pulled his neck from one side to the other, stretching the muscles as he stood feet apart from Peter in the middle of the gym.

“You remind me a lot of myself, son,” Steve faced him head-on. “Too chivalrous for your own good.”

Peter swallowed hard, pretty sure that he managed to get at least fifty-percent of the sweat from his face inside his mouth. A rush of nausea began to boil in his stomach, as hot on the inside as he felt on the outside.

“I just...I’m not usually this— _opfh!_” Peter doubled over, clutching his already-upset-stomach and praying that the bile swimming in his throat would stay there.

‘_Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Don’tpukedon’t _—_’_

“Captain America just sucker punched me...” Peter croaked, clenching his eyes tight. “That’s a thing that just happened...”

“There’s more where that came from if you don’t step up to the plate.” Steve held his fists high to his face, guarding himself in a protective stance. “You can’t let your emotions get the best of you. Worry too much about hurting the other guy, and you won’t stand a chance against the other guy. You lost your advantage down there in that bunker. What do you think could have happened differently? What could _you _have done differently?”

The gym fell quiet.

Peter’s vision turned fuzzy, his red and white Adidas shoes morphing into a blob of unrecognizable colors. Frustration came in a hot wave, bringing on a cold sweat that made his throat burn with rising acid. His hands clenched tightly together, knuckles growing white, teeth gritting from the effort not to snap back.

Still bent over, still clenching his stomach, a deep rumble began to grow in his chest.

Peter swung his fist before he even thought about it.

Knuckles hit against Steve’s jaw with a painstaking _CRACK_.

And again.

And again.

And again.

It wasn’t until the fourth time that Steve swung back.

His fist landed directly in the middle of Peter’s chest. The blow knocked the air out of his lungs, a wheeze escaping his mouth, so sharp it felt foreign. A tiny gasp pulled his lips apart, winded as he stumbled back on the balls of his feet.

Peter looked down at his chest, only for a brief moment. The next attack was mere inches from his face, time slowing in a way where he could see each line around Steve’s knuckle pulling taut with resistance. His mind felt beyond his own, pulled into a zone where his concentration couldn’t be broken.

He crouched low, kicking Steve’s ankle out from underneath him.

It wasn’t dodging, it wasn’t sparring.

It was an attack.

And Peter had a feeling he was the one making it that way.

The moment was a blur, as hazy as his own vision. Sweat burned in his eyes, burned against his skin, burned deep in his stomach. All he could think about was the frustration, the anger. It wasn’t enough, each punch he threw _wasn’t enough._

The feeling didn’t let up. The punches didn’t make him feel any better.

And to make matters worse, Steve was a damn good fighter. For every punch Peter landed, Steve matched it with two more. They could do this all day long, well into the night, and Peter wouldn’t get his frustrations out. He’d never find a release.

Somehow, that realization only further angered him.

Despite his attacks landing, despite the hits he felt in return, all he could think about was just that. How frustrated he felt, how furious and irritated downright _pissed _he felt. And how nothing was making it better.

Everything else happened like second nature. He knew when to dodge left, kick right, punch ahead.

“Parker?”

Jump high, crouch low, punch ahead.

“Hey, Parker!”

There was just so much frustration.

So much anger.

So much...

Dizziness...

“Peter!”

_ p̸̩̪͚̼͓̺̔̍̈̋͂̓̎̄͘͘e̶̜͉͎͙ț̷̥͉̜͈̝̰̍̎̍̆ḙ̵̢͐̍̊͐̽̈́̓̊̕r̶̨̧̡͎͖͚̤̳̳̓͒̈́ͅ _

“_Told you he felt warm.”_

_ P̶̭̙̱̌̈́̆̕e̴̥̫̔̌͌͝͝t̴̹̥͈̠͎̔e̵̖̝̙̣̳̎̊͜r̵̜̖̤͉̱͔͉̔͊̈͆̂̉͘ͅͅ _

_   
_

“_Shut up, Legolas.”_

“_Maybe it’s a good idea to listen to the guy who deals with sick kids on the fly, that’s all.”_

“_I said, shut up.”_

_ ą̴͉͙̻͎̋̃̍̎͐͘r̛̳̳̥̟̯͔͎̺͈̃͛̉̅̋͒̓͗ê̟̭̗̗̩̑̿̂̿͒͆͢͝ͅ ý̴̦̩͇͕͈́͋̃͞o̧̧͉̲̬̻͔̘̹̾̔͌̎̊̐̽̀͒u̶̡̢̥̠̣͇̣̓͌͑̽̈́̍͝ t̮̘̺̜͎͕͉̘̟̎̅́̄̔̈́̓̚͠͡ͅh̨̹͕̠̞͇̭̖͐̏͒̑̃͐͆̕͡ĕ̷͔͖̖̥̥͕̮̿͆̒͜͠ŗ̞̼͉̟̺̈́̌̃̏̎̐̅͟͠ę̵̲͚̺͉̓̒͐̑̍͒̏̊̈̀_

“_I’m just saying. I called it.”_

“_And I’m just saying that I’m going to take one of your _arrows and stick it so far up your —”

“Will you all be quiet?”

_ w̮̬̮͙̹̹͓̓̃͐̎͘̕͜ę̰̮̪̞͉̟̣͊̇̓̋̊̀̂͘ͅ ą̴̳̖̭̙͖̹͐͒͊̑̇̋̇͞r̸̢͙̤̭͈͑͒̊̏̈́̓̃͘̕͠ȩ̶̝̙̦̰̊͒͋̈́̅̈́̑͘ h̵̫͚͔̣͚̫̿̒̀̎͆͒͂͡e̵̜̻̼̱̎̒͗̃͒͟͠͡r̟͉̣̲̼̟̮̊̂͊͊͗̃͐̎͞e̢̡̛̗͚̱̹̙͍̩̜̊͒̎͆̐͡ _

The voices came to a stop.

Peter licked his lips, chapped and dry with a film over-top that could have easily been some sort of glue. It tasted disgusting — his whole mouth tasted disgusting. Like he had fallen asleep right after eating May’s meatloaf, never finding the time to brush his teeth and paying the consequence in the morning.

That was strange. He didn’t remember eating May’s meatloaf. In fact, he was pretty sure she stopped cooking in over a year ago, after she decided it wasn’t worth the headache of deactivating the smoke detectors from the apartment.

Wait...come to think of it, he wasn’t home. Was he? It was the weekend. That meant he was —

“You wakin’ up, underoos?”

“Give him time, Tony.”

“He’s _had _plenty of time —”

“That’s rich, coming from you. Exactly how long does Pepper say it takes you to wake up in the morning?”

“Cram it, Barton.”

— at the compound.

Peter made a face, already closed eyelids clenching tighter. It was hard to distinguish who was talking, and as a hard twist of nausea pinched his stomach together, he didn’t bother to figure it out. His eyelids, gritty and sticky, stayed closed as Peter managed a totally manly groan.

“I’ll take that whine as a yes.”

It didn’t take coherency to know _that _voice belonged to Mr. Stark.

Crap.

Peter opened his mouth, attempting to make a comeback. He only managed dry, stiff grunt in its place. When had someone taken all the saliva out of his throat and replaced it with cotton?

As if reading his mind, a straw suddenly wiggled its way between his lips, breaking the glue that had sealed them shut for so long.

“Slow sips,” a different voice instructed, much softer, more gentle than the others. “Don’t drink too fast, it’ll come right back up.”

Holy cow — it took everything Peter had not to drink the entire cup of water then and there. He had never tasted anything so delicious before, sent straight from heaven if he didn’t know better. Cold and brisk, itching a scratch in his throat he didn’t even know he had — if the straw hadn’t been removed, he was sure he’d have gulped the entire glass down.

It was for the best. Not even a few seconds later did he realize how heavy the water sat in his belly, feeling like he had gained a good five pound just in the past five seconds.

“Alright, you had your refreshments,” a loud clap accompanied Mr. Stark’s words. “Time to rise and shine, kiddo.”

“_Tony,_” a voice stressed, much closer than the others.

Peter recognized it almost immediately, especially once it started admonishing Mr. Stark. He heard that tone way too many times before; in the lab, in the workshop, in the kitchen...now that he thought about it, Doctor Banner almost always spoke to Mr. Stark like that.

Mr. Stark’s behavior certainly didn’t help.

“What?” Tony threw back, his cologne getting closer to Peter and making his stomach do three or four somersaults. “Don’t you think thirty minutes is enough time for someone to be unconscious, or did you want to push the record books and make it an hour?”

Peter cracked one eye open, waiting patiently for his vision to stop spinning before daring to open the other. Everything was blurry, the figures above him nothing but muted blobs of disoriented color.

“He hasn’t been unconscious for a half and hour, he’s been in and out. And relax, his vitals are stable,” Bruce reminded him, making some noise as he fumbled with supplies on the tray that sat nearby.

Peter winced, the metal clacking against other metal sounding much louder than he knew was normal. His senses were definitely misfiring, a dial normally set to eleven easily reaching twenty to twenty-one.

“Stable vitals, one minute away from falling into a hypoglycemic coma...you know, tomato, to-mat-o.”

“Barton, will you get the hell out of here?”

“Can’t. I’m invested now.”

Peter lolled his head to the side, blinking a few times to get his eyes in focus. Slowly but surely, Bruce’s hands became clearer, his sleeves rolled to the elbows as he began putting together some kind of bulky medical equipment.

Wait, medical —

Double crap.

Peter looked up, his eyes drifting away from Bruce’s hand and up to his face, where the doctor smiled down at him with a gentle, wordless grin. The monitors nearby, along with the harsh smell of sterile antiseptic, confirmed what Peter already had a sinking suspicion of. They had him in the med bay.

Triple crap.

Peter swiveled his head around, taking in the rest of his surroundings with better ease now that his eyes weren’t clouded over with fog. Far across the room and standing against the wall was Steve, his arms folded across his chest, now wearing a loose jacket over the t-shirt that had been one seam away from ripping apart.

Natasha sat in a chair beside him, her legs hanging over the armrest as she passed her phone from one hand to the other. Clint sat on an unoccupied table near them both, legs crossed underneath himself.

So wait, where was Mr. —

“Morning, sunshine.”

Peter wondered just how far he could sink into the cushions of the gurney before becoming one with the mattress. No matter how hard he tried, Mr. Stark was still staring him down, his glare so intense it could have very well had elements of The Force behind it.

“Shit,” Peter managed, running a shaky hand down the length of his face.

“Shit indeed,” Tony threw back. He gripped the railings to the gurney hard enough to shake the bed. “Do you have any idea —”

“_No, _Tony,” Bruce interrupted. He didn’t even look their way while putting together a bulky medical device. “You promised to wait until we checked his blood sugar again before losing your cool.”

Tony put on a show with exaggerated, dramatic offense – or at least he appeared too, Peter couldn’t exactly tell what any of the three Mr. Stark’s he saw were doing. He blinked furiously, desperate to get his vision focused again. Sheesh, his eyes hadn’t been this bad since before The Bite.

“I am not _losing my cool,_” Tony retorted. “I am simply —”

“Ow!” Peter yelped, the sudden prick against his finger sending goosebumps along his spine. He shot his head over to Bruce with neck breaking speed, watching as he began to milk the tip of his finger for blood from the cut.

“Sorry, Pete,” Bruce’s apology didn’t seem very sincere. He turned away, inserting into the square medical device a paper stick that had a drop of Peter’s blood. The glucometer made a quick _beep, _not even a few seconds later. “Seventy-four. That’s good, it’s rising.”

Tony made a sound that mildly resembled a hum. Peter was too busy shaking his hand to notice, the sting against his innocent digit taking longer than usual to dissipate.

“Catch, webslinger!”

Before Peter could even realize Clint had been talking to him, a granola bar smacked him straight across the face

“Ouch!” Peter yelped _again,_ embarrassing whimpering noises leaving his throat and making him wish he hadn’t gotten out of bed at all today.

“Barton!” Tony growled, the guardrails to the gurney vibrating underneath his shaking grip.

Rubbing at his eye with his good hand — the other currently having a band-aid being wrapped around his finger — Peter eyed Clint with the same bewildered look he had given Doctor Banner.

Natasha shook her head, quiet from where she sat in the back of the room. “Are you guys purposefully trying to beat up the poor child?”

“It kinda feels that way,” Peter squeaked out.

Clint shrugged, dropping his face and rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Sorry. Sorta thought his freaky-deaky-sixth sense would do something.”

Peter stared ahead, a moment passing before he realized that the beeping following Clint’s unintentional assault actually belonged to his own heartbeat. Sticky pads were littered across his chest and monitoring the pace of his pulse — which, at the moment, was _far _from calm.

“What – what happened?” Peter pulled at his hair, trying to fill the gaps of his memory with the things he last recalled. They were in the gym, right? Training? Yeah, he was training with the team and then — “Oh god, Captain America beat me up, didn’t he?”

A gentle chuckle sounded from the back of the room.

“No, son,” Steve answered, smiling kindly. “You actually had a good upper hand on me there for a moment.”

It was both a relief and a disappointment to hear. More relief than anything, because damn, there was no way he’d ever live down ‘beaten up by Captain America’, even if they were the only ones to know about it.

And wait, did Cap just say he got the upper hand on him? Holy crap — Peter smiled, momentarily proud of himself.

Tony cleared his throat, much louder than what was necessary.

Right. Peter rolled his eyes, regretting the action the moment a wave of dizziness struck him and sent the room into a tilt-o-whirl of spirals. Of course he’d be in trouble for this too.

“Then what —”

“You passed out,” Tony bluntly answered.

Peter shot his head over toward him, facing Mr. Stark’s heated glare for the first time since waking up.

“I what?”

He actually had it wrong the first time around; the man looked more upset than anything. Concerned, even. Not mad, just...frustrated? Peter could never get a good read on Mr. Stark, no matter how hard he tried. But despite his voice sounding angry, the expression didn’t match up. Peter didn’t know what to think of that.

Tony’s grip on the bedside railings loosened a smidgen, and he nodded.

“Flat on your ass.” Across the room, Clint whistled through tightly pursed lips, his hand diving from high above his head, straight down to his feet.

Tony closed his eyes, willing the patience as he called out, “Hey, American Gothic, weren’t you retired twenty minutes ago?”

“I don’t...” Peter stammered over them, forcing himself to sit higher in the bed. He looked down at himself, still dressed in sweat pants and a baggy t-shirt. His shoes had been taken off, white socks in plain view.

Damn it, the left sock had a huge hole near his big toe.

“I don’t remember that...”

“Hypoglycemic reaction,” Bruce explained, pushing up his glasses with his index finger as he fumbled to clean up the mess on the tray nearby. Discarded needles and caps, heart monitor pads, used gauze, and various other things were lying about. “By the time Steve got you here, your blood sugar had dropped into the teen’s.”

Peter blinked. Once, and then again.

“It did?”

“_Yeah, _it did,” Tony stressed, leaning over the bed to get into Peter’s line of vision. “Imagine my surprise, in the middle of trying on wedding tuxes with my best man, when Uncle Sam himself blows up my phone to tell me that you’re unresponsive on the gym floor.”

“I—”

“Do enlighten me,” Tony didn’t let Peter speak, quick to plow right over him. “When was the last time you stuffed that big mouth of yours?”

If Peter had any problems seeing Mr. Stark clearly before, he certainly didn’t now. The man was a good five inches away from his face, his cologne stronger than ever. Damn, personal space much? Peter forced himself further back into the bed, propping himself up on his elbows as he considered the question.

“I, uh, I don’t...” he trailed off, fighting through a foggy brain to remember. Didn’t he have a waffle this morning? No, those were at May’s. She always got the generic version of Eggo’s, the Belgian kind. They didn’t have that here at the compound. But he’d still had to have eaten something at some point. Right?

“Breakfast?”

The guess had little confidence behind it. Tony noticed, his eyebrow lifting high into his hairline. With him being so close to his face, Peter realized he had a few more gray hairs than he remembered. Huh, was he really causing that?

“You phrased that as a question,” Natasha remarked from the back of the room, crossing her one leg over the other.

Peter looked at her, his mouth moving for a response but no words coming out.

Steve frowned, pushing himself off the wall and walking a few feet closer to the bed.

“Do you not remember the last time you ate, Peter?” he asked.

Peter looked away, scratching at the back of his head. The longer everyone stared at him, the more nervous he became, unable to remember the last thing he said let alone the last thing he ate.

Noticing his moment of unease, Clint cleared his throat loudly, nodding down to Peter’s lap where the granola bar sat.

Peter looked at it. His stomach contracted violently; he had to force down the burp that nearly made its way out of his mouth. It wasn’t even the good kind that May would always buy, chocolate and peanut butter flavored that he’d keep in the bottom of his backpack for patrol. No, these were the calorie dense bars that they kept around for Steve.

They tasted like chalk and dirt.

Not even Steve liked them.

Peter timidly reached for it, opening it without much thought.

A gentle hand patted him on the shoulder. He didn’t look up to see who it was, too busy mustering up the courage to eat the food that felt heavier than a brick.

“You can’t let that happen again, Pete,” Bruce needlessly expressed, the small smile across his lips not doing nearly enough to overturn the concern flooding his eyes.

“I know,” Peter nodded, moving the granola bar to his lips but unable to take a bite. It smelt as disgusting as it looked. “I’m-I’m sorry, Doctor B.”

“Like hell you’re sorry,” Tony’s voice tore into his ears like Iron Man repulsors that would blast a door straight off its hinges. Peter nearly jumped in bed. “You know better than that, kid! You have a metabolism on crack, you miss one meal and you’re as good as —”

“Tony,” Bruce’s warning was stronger than time around, his voice holding a tension that made them all nervous.

“Don’t get me started,” Tony threw back.

Clint scoffed from the back of the room, muttering, “You sound pretty started to me.”

Peter had hoped Clint’s remark would have turned the attention away from him, especially as he forced down a bite of the dirt-chalk food that immediately regurgitated up into his throat.

Tony didn’t appear to be finished. He continued on, even as Peter swallowed down a mouthful of his own sickness.

“You seem to have developed short term memory, which I must say is a damn impressive considering your IQ,” Tony ranted, his hand waving in the air to nothing in particular. “Have you already forgotten just how mangled up your leg was? Or how about the bear trap it was in for weeks before yours truly managed to invent a device that looked a lot less_ medieval times_?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t just you, you know.”

Peter nodded, his head bowed down to his lap. “Yes, Mr. Stark.”

“How about both those wrists of yours — you still use those to websling around the city like a monkey who escaped from the zoo with no self-preservation, right?” He was on a roll, and they all knew it. Tony rambled on, loud and indignant, upset beyond stopping. “Remember how easy it was for someone to shatter those bones after just _two_ days of not eating? You want a repeat of that? You want to test the limits of your body, because —”

“That’s enough, Stark,” Steve’s voice rumbled over Tony’s, a steely sense of authority finally bringing control back into the med bay.

Tony jerked his head towards him, eyeing him, practically glaring at him. If they stood any closer, Peter would have been worried Doctor Banner might have to step outside to avoid the two of them breaking out into a fight. The energy flowing between them was hot, creating a sense of hostility and tension.

Ultimately, after a few beats and what they were all sure was much contemplation, Tony backed down.

“I’m just saying,” he turned back to Peter, his shoulders dropping as his posture softened. “You don’t eat, and it becomes a problem. You can’t do that.”

The room fell quiet, the kind where a pin could drop and Peter wouldn’t have been the only one to hear it. In fact, he might have been the only one _not _to hear it, the pounding in his head reaching an apex that made the muscles behind his eyes ache with pressure.

“I know. I’m...I’m really sorry,” Peter apologized for what felt like the hundredth time, his fingers pulling at the plastic wrapper to the calorie bar. It made his fingers slimy and sticky at the same time. “Really, Mr. Stark. I’m sorry. I just...I must have forgot.”

Tony didn’t respond, not immediately, though the look on his face told Peter there were many things he wanted to say but was holding back on. He instead sighed, his body lifting with the heaviness of his exhale.

Yeah, Peter decided, he was definitely the cause for those gray hairs.

Forcing himself to take another bite of the calorie bar, he chewed on chunks of dense vitamins and protein until his jaw began to hurt.

“That’s okay, Pete. It happens to the best of us,” Bruce reassured him, lowering the guard rail to the gurney and resting his hand against Peter’s knee. “Tony knows all about that. And he’s not going to be a hypocrite and push you...right, Tony?”

Peter turned his head to look at Mr. Stark, not realizing everyone else in the room had done the same thing. Steve, Natasha, Clint, Bruce — the attention quickly turned to Tony, some holding expressions much sterner than others.

Peter looked away, pulling in his lips until they were nonexistent.

Awkward.

“Right.” Tony took a few steps back, folding his arms over his chest as he distanced himself from both the gurney and Peter for the first time since he woke up. “Well, go on now. Eat up.”

The gesture to the calorie bar didn’t go unnoticed. Peter fiddled with it in his lap, managing a smile that looked much more like a grimace. He forced himself to take a large bite, tearing off a good chunk and chewing it until he felt safe enough to swallow.

Tony seemed to approve.

Peter considered it a win when digested granola didn’t immediately come back up.


	10. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re long overdue for some FUN NERD FACTS!
> 
> Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats, or otherwise known as The CRISPR technique, is a real thing. Who said learning science can’t be fun? Just gotta insert it in some fanfic first, amiright? But seriously, the way Bruce explains it in this chapter – all very real. 
> 
> The story will be dealing with two science mumbo jumbo's going forward, so just to clarify -- The Oz Formula, as described in this chapter, is what Norman has decided to re-pursue going forward. He's re-pursuing this because The Symbiote, which is what Peter is currently infected with, has not bonded to him (Norman). These two things WILL have a purpose as the story unravels, so pay close attention. You know me, all details matter, blah blah blah -- 
> 
> Okay, that's enough of that. I really want to take the time to say how you guys are so friggin amazing. I just can't stop myself from saying it. All your wonderful, encouraging, supportive comments keep me going like WHOA. Thank you SO much for all your sweet kindness, both in regards to my day job AND to my side-hobby writing this fic. I hope you all are enjoying it, and thank you so incredibly much for being patient with me. I know this story is taking forever and a day, and while I'm happy to go along the journey I'm also excited for the end that will soon be in sight, and that's only possible because of YOU. So seriously, thank you!!
> 
> Now have some angst, ya crazy bunch!

The text messages came through as quickly as he turned the corner, walls to the hallway blurring together, the apartment building becoming one unfocused mess.

Vibrations buzzed frantically in his jean pocket, one after another, never stopping.

Neither did he.

Peter knew exactly what he’d be walking into when coming home.

“Oh my _god!_” May jumped up from the sofa, throwing her cell phone on the coffee table as she rushed towards him.

Peter didn’t take so much as one step past the front door, immediately holding two hands up in the air.

“I can explain —”

“I have been calling you for the past two hours — _two_!” May’s voice, taut with stress, easily plowed over Peter’s. She rushed past him, closing the apartment door as quietly as possible – which wasn’t quiet at all. “You haven’t been answering your phone, you haven’t been texting back any of your friends — you can’t do that!”

Peter twisted around to face her. “May, listen —”

“I don’t know what the hell to tell your principal, I have no idea what to tell the school —” her hair loosened from its bun, her cheeks flushing red as she paced into the living. “This isn’t like you, Peter, this isn’t like you at all!”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Peter couldn’t get the words out fast enough. He dropped his backpack on the ground, nearly tripping over it as he tried to approach his aunt. “Honestly, May, I —”

“What the _hell_ is going on with you!” Her voice cracked as it raised in volume. “Why would you do this, why would —”

Peter stopped chasing her once he realized she was pacing in a circle. Her hands were waving around fast enough to create an artificial wind that not even the ceiling fan could match.

“I didn’t mean to —!”

“His mother sent me a picture, he has a black eye.” May fumbled over to the couch, blindly reaching for her phone and swiping across the screen with shaking fingers.

Peter visibly gulped as she extended her arm out, straight as a stick, shoving the display in his face.

“A black eye! You know better than that, you know – oh my god, with that – that strength — your powers, your — you could have done so much more, you could have – oh god, you could have —!”

“May, _please, _stop freaking out!” Peter begged, his hands grabbing at nothing, fists clenched so tightly fingernails began to dig painfully into his skin.

She spun around, her bun finally dropping from its loose hold.

“Stop freaking out?”

There was a pause, stifling as Peter fought for his next breathe.

“Yes,” he timidly nodded. His nerves wrapped so tightly around his windpipe that he couldn’t swallow even the tiniest bit of saliva accumulating in his mouth.

“Stop freaking out?” May repeated.

The strands of hair that had fallen in front of her face did nothing to hide her eyes, practically bulging out of her head.

“You _punched _your classmate!”

Peter’s jaw fell to the floor. He swung his arm out wildly, pointing at nothing that mattered.

“He started it!”

“And when has that ever made things okay!?”

Peter couldn’t remember the last time he yelled at May.

He couldn’t remember the last time May had yelled at him.

It was never a good thing when she was angry like this. She’d freak out, and then he’d freak out, and just like that, all of a sudden the neighbors across the hall weren’t the nosiest tenants in the building.

“He called me retarded!” Peter’s shout echoed with defensiveness, his voice meeting her from across the living room.

May abruptly stopped pacing. “And so you decided to start a_ fight!?_”

“Why am _I _the one who started the fight!?” Peter suddenly felt hot, a scorching pit of lava gurgling in his stomach, one he could feel on the inside and out. Not even the ceiling fan could cool him down, not even May’s wild gestures brought in enough air to keep him from sweating buckets. “He’s the one who came at me, he’s the one who —!”

“You punched him!” May cut him off, her voice thundering over his.

“I was minding my own business —!"

“You punched him!”

“I was walking to class —!”

“You punched him!”

Peter threw up his hands. “So what!?”

“You could have _killed _him!”

Her words rang as they hung in the air, sharp and crisp, crashing through the barrier of furniture between them.

Peter stuttered for a comeback, stuttered for a retort that died in his throat. A weak breath parted his lips with nothing more to say. The longer she stared at him — her gaze hard as rocks — the faster he felt his heart jackhammer within his chest, a broken metronome that sent blood pooling to his ears.

Each beat, each thump pulverized the bones of his rib-cage, deafening the sound of his own thoughts.

“Peter, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on!”

May emptied every bit of emotion she had in her plea, her voice splintering at the edges. The sun shining through the living room window highlighted the glisten of liquid pooling beneath her round-framed glasses.

He could see May’s lips moving, he could see her throat convulse with each cry she delivered. But he couldn’t hear anything besides the white noise vibrating against his eardrums, increasing frequency so strong that pressure built behind his eyes. His vision grew blurry, cloudy, darker with each breath he fought to seize.

Peter swallowed, hard.

“I failed my history essay.”

May’s demeanor softened, the weight on her shoulders visibly reducing.

“What?” she practically whispered, surprise lining every thread of her tone.

The apartment went quiet.

The murky shadows that bordered his vision began to clear away, a darkened vignette seeping back through the edges of his eyes until it was no more.

Not even the muffled ringing that once flooded his ears was heard, only the sound of the refrigerator whirring in the kitchen, and a faucet dripping from the bathroom down the hall.

Peter collapsed onto the sofa, leaning forward with his head heavy in his hands.

“I thought I was doing good! I got a tutor and everything, I don’t understand—!” he smothered a frustrated groan into the squishy parts of his palms, his throat growing hoarse with frustration. “I tried and it just...it wasn’t enough.”

May’s sigh was forceful enough that he could feel her breath against the nape of his neck. She leaned over from behind the couch, gently placing both hands against Peter’s shoulders.

“So now your average is going to drop,” she concluded aloud, brushing away some lint from the green jacket he still wore. “And you’ll be off the Decathlon team for the rest of the semester.”

Peter weakly nodded. “And Flash gets my spot.”

The stress between them began to chip away. Slowly but surely, it melted with the sunlight that came pouring through the window, bright against the bookcases lined along the walls.

Peter took a deep, controlled breath as May began to massage the tight knots that kept his shoulders so tense.

“He said...”

Peter paused, forcing down the lump that ached painfully in his throat. His phone had stopped vibrating every second, going off only every other minute now. He had no doubt his friends stopped trying to reach him. If he kept ignoring them like this, he knew soon they’d stop trying altogether. And he wouldn’t blame them.

“He said that since I finally found a daddy who can afford whatever I need...I should have him buy me a passing grade. Whatever the hell that means,” Peter’s tongue dripped with the bitterness his tone couldn’t soak up. “The whole school has been obsessing over this Paris thing with Mr. Stark, they keep thinking he’s my dad and he’s _not _and it’s…”

He took another deep breath, one that shook and rattled in his chest, forcing himself to stay calm. May continued to rub his shoulders, her thumbs putting pressure in just the right spots.

“It was on the way to second period, everyone was there, everyone heard and I just...I got _really _mad. I’ve never...” Peter scrubbed both hands down his face, pulling at his skin. “I was really angry. I don’t know what came over me, I don’t...I’m sorry, May. I’m really sorry.”

The Queen’s afternoon traffic from outside began to pick up, car horns honking replacing the sound of their arguing. Peter was just happy that his aunt had calmed down, if only a little bit.

“Alright, so first off,” May finally let go of his shoulders, walking around the sofa to face him head-on. “That’s absolutely disgusting, and unacceptable. Eugene’s mother is hearing about _all _of that.”

Peter shot up, his back rod straight against the cushions of the couch. “May —”

“Uh-uh, I’m not hearing it. If Rosie Thompson can give me hell over her son’s black eye, then she can take what she dishes out. I’m telling her about _all _of this. And the principal as well.” May held a finger up when Peter tried to speak, a fire lighting in her eyes that he’d only ever seen a few times before. It was her defensive side, dare he say her maternal side. “You absolutely do not get a pass on punching the mouthy little jerk, but he doesn’t get out of this scot-free either.”

Peter let out an exaggerated groan, thumping his head against the back of the couch. Between Flash’s broken leg, a black eye that honestly looked to be more make-up than anything else, and now taking Peter’s spot on the Decathlon team – the entire school would be stuck hearing about how victimized he’d become.

The attention he’d get from it – Flash would absolutely use the spotlight to make his life a living hell.

“May, please, _don’t,_” he stressed, pulling at handfuls of his hair. “Just leave it alone, you’ll make this so much worse!”

His plea was the most vocal he had been since entering the apartment, reaching levels that not even his anger had yet to achieve.

May looked at him, her eyebrows knitting together tightly with a hybrid of confusion and concern.

“Peter, chill out. It’s okay. I’ll talk with Mr. Harrington, see if he’ll work with you,” she insisted, still taken aback by Peter’s irritation. “You’re a good student, you’re excelling in all your other classes. They’ll see that, trust me.”

Peter slumped down further into the sofa, practically burying himself into his jacket. As May shifted her weight from one foot to the other, he realized she was still wearing her work clothes — high heels, a pencil skirt, and a blouse. It was the outfit he saw her leave in this morning.

He realized she must have left the office when getting a phone call from the school.

God — Peter rubbed at his eyes until he saw dancing stars. They called her while she was at work. He really screwed up. In so, so many ways did he screw up.

“It’s not just that. It’s...” Peter trailed off, his voice lowering to barely a murmur. “I was going to take MJ to homecoming.”

May’s brows shot up high, dangerously close to disappearing into her hairline.

“You what?” She tugged at her ear, pulling it towards him.

Peter looked away, his cheeks reddening, his nervousness bleeding straight through him. “It’s stupid. She’s gunna be upset now, she’s had so much on her plate and —”

“Hold on, rewind there for a second.” May walked around the coffee table, taking a seat next to him on the couch. He looked away from her, and she had to crane her head low to see his face. “You asked Michelle to go to the homecoming dance with you?”

Peter could only nod, too busy biting his tongue to say anything.

May quickly caught onto his hesitance. She leaned back and away, providing a bit more breathing room on the small sofa.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she softly asked, no judgment, all curiosity.

Peter shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, not anymore. She’s not gunna want to go with me now. I messed up, she was relying on me to hold my spot on the team, she even told me to get a tutor and I still flunked out and she didn’t want to deal with Flash and now — May, I screwed up big time.”

Despite Peter knowing that May was more than used to his mile-a-minute rambles, she still seemed to struggle to absorb the information thrown her way.

May sat quietly, wordlessly as she slowly took everything in.

Peter couldn’t dare look at her while she did.

“Well, you’re...you’re not being kept from the dance, are you?” she finally asked. “That’s still weeks away. It wouldn’t make any sense to punish you for that long.”

Peter fidgeted with his fingers, picking at his nails and pulling at split cuticles.

“I have detention for two weeks,” he admitted, shrugging to make himself seem more casual than how he felt. “Principal Morita said he’ll make a decision after that.”

May sighed. It was another sigh he could feel hit his skin, all the way from where she sat on the sofa.

“Okay, I can talk to him,” she finally said after a pause. “But you have to talk to me in return, Peter. _What _is going on with you?”

Peter’s head shot up at a record-breaking speed. The pang of frustration hit him like a tidal wave.

“I told you! Flash said —”

“And you punched him,” May ran right over him, her voice sharp as knives. “When have you _ever _done that? Ever?”

For a suspended moment, neither of them said anything.

For a moment, Peter clenched his jaw with a strength he’d never felt before, bone against bone grinding and straining under the pressure of his own anger.

“Are you taking his side?”

His question came so abruptly that May couldn’t help but find herself startled.

“_No, _Peter, but —”

“He’s done this crap all the time!” A sudden rush to get his defense out had Peter speaking in a jumble, cluttered mess. “You don’t get it! He says all these really hurtful things and I just let it go, _all _the time! The _one _time I do something —”

“It only takes one time with you!” May’s voice faltered as her emotion began to surface again. “One time — you know that!”

Peter let out a sound of disbelief, forcing himself to look away, staring off at nothing in particular. It felt like he had hit a brick wall, driving at two hundred miles per hour without a seat belt.

It felt like he had crashed into a dead end.

May’s accusation pummeled through him, tore into him in a way he had become so accustomed to as of late. It was just like every other adult he’d try talking with lately. They wouldn’t hear him out, they wouldn’t _listen _to him.

Without another thought, Peter stood up from the couch. “Am I grounded?”

“What?” May blinked, and then blinked again. “I — I don’t know —”

“I want to go to my room,” Peter quickly interrupted, his voice growing flat. “Can I please go to my room?”

May stared at him for the longest time, as if searching for something that he knew she wouldn’t find. Maybe she was looking for a reason for his attitude, in which case he had no answer to give her. Perhaps it was a resolution to their bickering, which he knew wouldn’t come anytime soon.

And from the looks of it, she knew it wasn’t happening either.

Ultimately she caved, waving her hand down the hall while the other reached for her discarded cell phone.

“Okay, fine. I need to call Tony anyway.”

Peter’s knees buckled.

“What? Wait, no, why?” he panicked, almost diving for her cell phone before quickly realizing how incredibly stupid that would have been. “May, don’t tell Mr. Stark about this, _please. _I’ll – I’ll stay home this weekend, you can ground me, whatever you want. Please, just leave him out of this.”

May held tightly onto her phone, stunned at Peter’s outburst, at how red his cheeks had grown in a second’s time.

“Why? Peter, he wants to be involved —”

“Him being involved is exactly what caused this!” Peter’s throat started to burn, growing hoarse with each word that cracked and broke in pitch. He suddenly felt lightheaded, dizziness nearly stealing his balance. “People keep thinking he’s my dad — even you’re treating him like he’s my dad! He’s _Mr. Stark,_ he doesn’t need to know about this! It wasn’t even a fight, it was nothing, really! I’ll go to detention, I’ll do what I have to do, it’s _fine_ – just don’t tell him about this!”

May sat quietly during Peter’s explosion, patient as she waited for him to finish. Only once the detonation of his frustration began to clear away, only when he finally took a moment to let his chest heave in the air he so desperately needed, did she finally speak up.

“You know, he’s worried about you.”

Her calm did nothing to off-put his agitation.

“Yeah, because he’s freaking out over _everything _I do lately!” Peter could feel his arms begin to tremble as his anger boiled over, unearthed from his gut, quick to temper. “You can’t tell him about this, he’s just going to flip out —”

“He thinks you’re acting strange.” May was the one to interrupt this time, steadier than he expected her to be. “And I’m inclined to agree.”

“Mr. Stark doesn’t know what’s going on,” Peter stressed each word, dragged on each syllable. “May, please —”

“If he doesn’t know what’s going on,” May folded her arms across her chest. “Then tell me.”

Peter spun around, unable to face his aunt anymore, worried that the tremble in his hands would lead to a hole in the drywall straight ahead of him.

“_Nothing _is going on, I’m fine —!”

“Cut the bullshit!”

Everything in Peter froze. His breath halted in his chest, his mouth ran dry. And as quickly as May stood up from the couch, she stormed over towards him, her heels dangerously forceful against the floor.

“I know you’re not sleeping. I know you’re not eating,” May’s voice was cold, steely. “I know that you passed out last weekend at the compound. That’s not fine!”

Peter blinked rapidly; whether it was to urge unshed tears back in their place or digest what May had said, he didn’t know.

He didn’t know what to say.

He vaguely realized May was staring at him, hugging herself tightly. Yet the corners of his vision were growing dim again, shadows invading the room. A darkening gray veiled his eyesight in a way that didn’t feel right, didn’t feel normal.

“Talk to me, Peter,” she begged him, a shuddering breath conveying a fierce concern that consumed her. “If what happened back...if it’s bothering you —”

Peter jolted away from May before her touch could reach him.

“It’s not!” His shout was sudden, grating, like a needle digging underneath his skin. “Why are you saying that? Why does everyone insist on bringing that up?! It’s not bothering me, I don’t care, and I don’t want to talk about it!”

If May had anything to say, Peter didn’t give her the time to respond. He stormed past her, each step he took pounding with the anger that flooded through his core, practically shaking the walls and picture frames where they were hung.

“I don’t _need _to talk about it! It happened, and it’s over. Why is nobody else just happy that it’s..._over!?”_

Peter stopped halfway to his room, suddenly grabbing hysterically at the roots of his hair, pulling so hard May could see his knuckles grow white, even from where she stood down the hall.

“And why is the bathroom sink _STILL LEAKING!?_”

Peter’s scream was only drowned out by the slamming of his bedroom door.

The wood near the hinges cracked and splintered.

It left an echo that swept through the apartment.

May stayed standing in the living room, unmoving, aghast to the moment that just occurred.

Behind the broken door and unseen to her, Peter quickly removed his jacket and stuffed it against his face, frantic to contain the stream of blood that poured out from his nose.

* * *

A large plate of cookies placed down on the kitchen island, the glassware clunking and clattering as it made contact with the marble stone.

“A gift from Laura Barton,” Natasha announced, making no hesitation in taking a cookie for herself before settling down one of the bar stools nearby.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Sam was the first one to lean over the table and remove the saran wrap, the cookies still somehow warm despite having traveled all the way from the mid-west. The Quin-jet proved to be worth its cost; the steam rising from the plate gave the sign that the treats were freshly removed from the oven only a short while ago. “If there’s one thing that marksman is good for, it’s his wife’s eerily amazing baking talents.”

Sam eagerly snatched two, and two more after that, only stopping once getting a bewildered look from Bruce.

“Being a homemaker will give you that skill,” Tony mentioned from across the way, leaning casually against the wall, too busy eyeing his electronic tablet to look up at the group. “Put me in a kitchen for ten hours a day, and I could bake you a Sole Meunière to die for.”

Rhodey rolled his eyes, approaching the kitchen with his mechanical legs whirring at every step. Though the large island had enough room for all six of them, he opted out of taking a seat himself. It was easier to stand with his braces, choosing to lean against the cabinets instead.

“How’s the family doing anyway, Nat?” he asked, snatching a cookie of his own.

Natasha swallowed past the crumbs in her throat, shrugging nonchalantly. “As well as they can be for the simple life. Clint’s pulling out his hair right about now — one of the kids got busted sneaking out of the house last night. He wants to make sure the little delinquent follows through on punishment this weekend. Something about scrubbing the tractor-trailer with the toddler’s toothbrush.”

The glistening shine in her eye told Rhodey that the punishment mentioned didn’t come from Clint, or even anyone who resided in the Barton family. If Natasha’s mischievous gleam didn’t give it away, her smirk did.

As Bruce rummaged through the fridge for a carton of milk, Steve pulled up a stool at the end of the table. He clasped his hands together firmly, setting them down in front of him.

“Good, you got to steer them right at a young age,” he said, his serious tone failing to match the smile that upturned his lips. “I hope you gave them our regards?”

Steve politely shook his head at the glass of milk Bruce offered him, and Natasha took it instead.

“Always, gramps,” she smiled even as she sipped on her drink.

“Alright, small talk can be dialed back to a healthy dose of none,” Tony’s firm voice reached across the kitchen as he pushed himself off the wall, discarding his tablet next to the plate of cookies. He didn’t bother to take one, not even as Sam reached for more. “We’ll make sure Farmer Joe gets the meeting minutes in his email. I’m sure one of you will be happy to draw up a thank you card for the wife. Until then, down to business.”

He looked over to Natasha, an expectant expression written across his face. “La Femme Nikita, whacha got for us?”

Natasha brought one leg up on the stool, her knee pressed against her chest with flexibility not even rubber could obtain.

“Cookies,” she needlessly stated, innocently pointing to the plate.

Tony’s glare turned glacial.

“Lighten up,” She pulled a small flash drive out from her pant pocket. “You’re going to appreciate that joke once I hit you with this.”

She slid the small device across the table, straight over to Tony. He didn’t waste a second in picking it up, plugging the USB connector into his tablet and immediately swiping the screen into holographic form.

A blue and white light illuminated the empty space that surrounded them, glowing with faint tones of different colors, muted once displayed on a lucent screen shinning across the length of the kitchen table.

Tony flipped through multiple files with precise haste, his hands erratic as he sorted them, organized them before anyone could set eyes on a single word that was laid out.

“What is it?” Steve asked, leaning forward with interest.

Rhodey folded his arms across his chest, stuffing his hands deep into his armpits. “A few months back — after the courts tossed out the subpoena that the Air Force weapons procurement liaison department submitted against OsCorp industries — Natasha and myself created an algorithm. It took a while to perfect, but we eventually snuck it into their systems.”

“We wanted to latch onto any words, codes, cryptography — anything that may possibly lead us to where they’ve been hiding their experiments since SHIELD shut down the clandestine facility in the Bermuda Triangle,” Natasha added, wrapping an arm tightly around the leg pulled high to her chest.

“What did it find?” Bruce looked around the room, as if asking anyone nearby. “The program, what – what did it find?”

Steve squeezed the fold on his hands, watching with intent interest as Tony’s technology lit up the kitchen with an artificial glow, the once marble stone of the table now a display case for translucent screens.

“Not much.” Natasha shrugged. “Rhodey and I were starting to wonder if they’ve given up the game, gone straight after a good scare from Director Hill and her team.”

“You don’t think Fury was involved in that in any way?” Sam brushed cookie crumbles away from his shirt, swallowing hard as his demeanor fell serious. “Shutting them down and all?”

Natasha shook her head, barely glancing his way. “I don’t know what Fury is up to these days, aside from lurking in the shadows where he see fit.”

“It’s the man’s favorite past time,” Tony muttered, not once looking away from the multiple holographic screens that he waved and flicked around in the air, a conductor of intangible images only made touchable by his technology. “And you’re spewing fairy-tales and folklore, Romanoff. There’s no way they’d stop cold turkey, not this far into their game. They’ve gone too deep.”

“Pun intended?” Rhodey dryly joked, a tight smile creeping across his face.

Tony gave him the side-eye and nothing more.

“You’re right,” Natasha remarked, nodding towards the holograms ahead. “Something else has taken precedence.”

Tony tapped twice on the table, the glowing imagery beaming as it lifted upwards. His fingers pinched tightly together until the tips of his nails made contact. With one smooth move, he spread his arms wide apart, enlarging the document with ease.

It rotated, spinning around to show those facing the other way. Tony walked the length of the kitchen island to keep up with it, eyeing it with a line deepening between his brow.

“What the hell is this?” Sam asked, adjusting himself on the stool to get a better look.

The images littering the document weren’t hard to distinguish — scans of the human brain, detailing the different matter and components, looking like pictures straight out of an antonym book. With it were diagrams of DNA strands and cell structure, each moving in animation, trial and error to a hypothesis that detailed alongside the report.

“A formula,” Tony stated, finding conclusion faster than anyone else. The look in his eyes said one thing; he was studying it, absorbing the information in ways no one else could even consider doing.

Rhodey’s eyes drifted over his friend, watching as he kept up with the spinning hologram, the reflection mirroring directly onto his face.

“The Oz Formula, to be exact.”

Tony came to a screeching halt. He snapped his head over to Rhodey, his eyes wide, the whites shining blue from the image gleaming in the air.

“Well, stone the crows and strike me pink…I’ll be damned.” He pointed to the document, his finger shaking multiple times, practically wagging at it with excitement. “Rhodey —”

“I know,” Rhodey immediately cut in, calm and cool, collected despite Tony’s heightening emotion that threatened to overtake the room. “I told you...I believed you.”

To all the others, it looked as if Tony’s mind had short-circuited. As if the information was too heavy to handle, too much to process.

For Tony, it was his brain running a mile a millisecond, only having stopped wagging his finger to tap it endlessly against his chin. The thoughts came too fast to keep up with, a head-rush of realization opening a gate of closed-off questions that he hadn’t let himself ask until now.

Months of searching, months of digging — finally they had _something. _

OsCorp could pay their employed scum the worlds worth in money to keep their mouths shut. It didn’t stop the Avengers from finding out the truth.

It _wouldn’t _stop the Avengers from finding out the truth.

“It came through on the algorithm a few days ago,” Natasha spoke up, addressing the team. “I back-traced it within the servers to a Doctor Lucas Murphy, a scientist employed at Oscorp for over three decades. Multiple PhD’s, doctorates — holds more degrees in biochemistry than anyone in this entire facility.”

“And he’s working for OsCorp?” Sam scoffed, incredulous disbelief lacing his tone. “They must have some amazing pension plans there.”

“So this Doctor Murphy is the one creating the formula?” Steve looked to Tony for an answer, only to see the man had immediately returned to swiping through screens and pulling up new ones. He instead canned his head behind him. “Rhodey, didn’t you say they claimed it was a cure for any human sickness?”

Rhodey nodded curtly. “_Immune to the destruction of one’s own molecular structure_ and some additional bullshit verbiage, yeah. It sounded too Strucker-ish for me. Like they wanted to create the next super-solider serum, or something damn close to it.”

The screech of a chair against tile flooring cut through the room.

“That’s not this,” Bruce said in a breath, standing from his seat and slowly walking over to where the document floated in the middle of the kitchen table. It was his turn to wag his finger at the screen. “That’s not this at all.”

Natasha straightened up in her stool. “Use your big boy words, Bruce.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Tony cut in. “FRIDAY just analyzed the entire document. While you all were sorting the puzzle pieces, she put the puzzle together.”

Tony took a step back, further away from the table than anyone else. As he did, an array of different screens began flickering to life, one by one, each brighter than the last.

“It’s an artificial biogenic mutagen,” he stated. “They didn’t lie about one thing, It’s definitely being designed to augment the cell structure of the human body.”

The animation in the reports played in a seamless loop, 3D designs pivoting with smooth agility. Steve realized not long after silence had taken their conversation that the funky-looking DNA strands had circled a total of five times.

“How?” he finally asked.

Bruce pointed a stern, straight finger to the hologram. “This here? It’s a string of different chemical compounds and nucleotides. Adenine, thymine, phosphate-dexyribose – uh, that there is guanine, and cyosine. There’s an entire study here on ribonucleic acid and it’s connection to cytoplasm —”

“It’s the CRISPR technique,” Tony interrupted, offering Bruce an unapologetic smile. “Sorry, Brucey, you were going to put them to sleep.”

There was a pause as the others struggled to understand the information. Natasha tilted her head to the side, pressing her chin against her knee with an attentive look. Steve, Sam, and Rhodey waited for further explanation, eyeing the two men that stood at the head of the table with tense impatience.

“I’ve never...I’ve never seen anything like this,” Bruce awed.

“What’s _this?_” Steve all but demanded. “What are we looking at?”

“Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats,” Tony smoothly explained, not a stutter in his words. “Otherwise known as the molecular biology’s version of copy and paste.”

“It’s fascinating,” Bruce drawled on. “It’s based on how bacteria protect themselves from foreign viruses. When viral DNA is detected, the bacteria sends out two single strands of RNA – a nucleic acid present in all living cells. It then uses a protein called Cas9, which locates the section of that DNA with the same code. The RNA then locks onto that piece and cuts it there, disabling it.”

Bruce carefully removed his glasses, cleaning the lenses with the hem of his shirt as he continued, “The same process can be used to add or delete information from _any _organism, including humans. The CRISPR technique can edit genomes – it can deactivate some gene, but at the same time it could also cut DNA and provide another copy. A mutated copy of that gene to change the way its expressed. It can completely alter someone’s cell structure, create a whole new strand of DNA in the process. A whole new _person._”

The only immediate response was a mildly disconcerting silence, tense and stifling in the air.

Sam leaned back in his chair, blinking more than once. “That didn’t put me to sleep...but it sure as hell confused me.”

“I think I get it,” Natasha bemused, setting down her leg to lean closer towards the hologram. “You’re saying that this formula will target sections of DNA and replace it with a completely different strand?”

Bruce nodded a few more times than necessary. “Essentially.”

“Why is that bad?” Steve didn’t ask out of ignorance or asininity, knowing full well what powerful things could do in the wrong hands. But rather, he asked out of a deepening need to broaden his scope of the world. As if he was questioning all the likelihoods they needed to account for, everything within the realm of possibility that could become their next battle, their next fight.

Tony knew that about him. He had no problem engaging with his devil’s advocate side.

“Depends on Hermagoras’ method of the five W’s,” Tony easily tossed back, stuffing his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “Who, what, when, where and why. What’s the substitute DNA? Why pursue the research in the first place?”

“When do they plan on doing it?” Bruce chimed in, his glasses slipped back on his face, the reflection of the screen stealing sight of his eyes.

“Where do they plan on doing it?” Tony continued, circling the table.

“And who’s it for?” Rhodey finished. He gave Tony a curt nod as the man passed his way.

Steve’s eyes darted around carefully, cautiously as each man tossed words no more easily than if they were tossing a ball on a sports field. He unclasped his hands, going to let his chin rest on a closed fist.

“What’s the worst this could do if obtained by the wrong people?” Steve fell silent for the moment, noting the suffocating misgiving that had found its way through the kitchen. “You talk about creating perfection, a new man. Are we still looking at someone trying to achieve a copy of the super-solider serum?”

Tony gnawed on the corner of his lower lip, tapping his index finger restlessly on the marble material of the island.

“I’d say they’re trying to achieve something damn similar. But from the looks of it, their enticement – it’s entirely different. Curing human illnesses, becoming immune to cellular destruction...they want some sort of immunity,” he pondered out loud, eyes staring far off into the distance, deep in thought. “Best case, somebody takes this formula and never has to see a doctor again in their life. Their bad genes get deleted, the good ones are popped right in...hell, do it right and they may never have to shake hands with the Grim Reaper. Ripley’s Believe It Or Not...they’ll be the first human to never see death.”

Sam’s eyes widened, his jaw nearly touching the cookie crumbles below him. “That’s the _best _case?”

His incredulous outburst was left untouched, the room growing quiet while Tony stayed busy studying the documents slowly rotating in the air.

“Worst case...” his voice dawdler off with piercing alarm, a heavy weight of the unspoken lingering between them.

Steve straightened in his chair, growing alertness stiffening his posture.

“What is it, Tony?”

Tony spared him a glance, one that said everything he needed to know.

“Genome editing technology at this level,” his hand gestured to the hologram, waving at it, practically frustrated with it. “You might as well be playing God. Consider it the scientist’s version of Jenga. You remove one piece, and the whole thing comes crashing down. Worst case...” he managed a deep breath, his chest expanding. “Worst case, it creates a monster.”

Tony didn’t bother to look at the others as he spoke, and they didn’t bother to look at him.

Thoughts ran rampant in the room, too great to speak, too heavy for words.

They had fought off a lot as a team.

Loki, Strucker, Ultron…

Ross, The Accords.

Each other.

“You think OsCorp is dirty enough to stoop that low?” Natasha’s quiet voice spoke up, borderline timid for someone of her demeanor.

Tony looked her head-on, the lines between his forehead deepening. “I saw those files down there in that bunker. They’ve been doing much worse. We just haven’t been privy to their plans.”

Rhodey stepped forward, the buzzing hum of his leg braces in tune with the spinning hologram floating above the kitchen table. He grabbed Tony’s tablet, unplugging the USB device with a restrained sigh, stuffing it deep into his jacket pocket.

“Now what?” he asked, just as the hologram flickered out to nothing.

Steve leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “We wait.”

Tony may as well have had a stroke then and there.

“We _what_?” He threw back without any delay, placing two open palms on the table as he leaned forward. “Focus up. I’m sorry, did I mishear you? Or did you really just say that you want us to stand around like lost lemons?”

“We can’t barge in there, Tony, not with stolen information that tells us little to nothing about their intent. You said it yourself, there’s too many questions left. Too many answers that we need before pursuing anything. We’ve been alerted.” Steve looked straight forward, no hologram of fancy images to block his view of Tony, nothing to obscure his determined expression as he firmly stated, “Now, we wait.”

A pin could have dropped, and it would have sounded like a bomb.

Bruce looked around, his arms fidgety as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, stuffed his hands deep into his armpits, balanced from one foot to the other with unsure, uptight movements.

“And what happens if we wait too long?”

His question was answered not with words, but rather looks from faces that held brittle worry, an edge that kept their confidence strained and taut.

Tony kept his eyes locked on Steve, unmoving, a table length apart and silent for an awkward beat.

Rhodey noticeably cleared his throat, breaking the unwanted silence.

“On the topic of the Osborn dynasty,” he spoke up, looking Tony’s way as he did. “Peter still hanging out with Norman’s son?”

Tony looked away and towards Rhodey, almost involuntary, like he didn’t want to. A hard, cold stare later and he finally shrugged.

“I have no clue,” he admitted, pulling his sunglasses from his blazer pocket and slipping them onto his face. “Kid’s barely saying more than two emojis to me. Three is like winning the lottery.”

Natasha snorted, keeping her head low as she remarked, “Can’t say I blame him.”

Her not-so-subtle whisper was heard, intentional or not. Tony arched an eyebrow high, marching the few steps to close the distance between them. He titled his head to the side, staring her down from where she sat.

“Come again, Covert Affairs?”

“She’s got a point,” Sam immediately came to her defense, arms folded across his chest with a smug cockiness that couldn’t be shaken.

Tony balked at him, and then at the others, none of whom came to his rescue.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he held two hands high in the air, the sun from the skylights bouncing off his purple-tinted frames. “Exactly when did this turn on me?”

“It hasn’t,” Rhodey finally stepped in, albeit too casually for Tony’s liking. “It’s just...you’ve been a bit of a mother hen around him, don’t you think?”

His eyes widened to the point that not even his sunglasses could cover them anymore.

“_Mother hen?” _Tony echoed.

“Oh lord,” Sam muttered, rubbing at his forehead. “Here we go.”

Tony plowed right over him. “Last I checked, I’m not licking my feathers and sitting on eggs on day—”

“Tones...” Rhodey gently interrupted, “you yelled at the kid for forgetting to eat his breakfast.”

Tony’s reply was instant.

“He _passed out._”

“Yeah,” Rhodey tensely tossed back, “and how many times did I drag your sorry ass to a doctor because you decided coffee was a great substitute for protein?”

“Hey, you just said this wasn’t about me —”

“It’s not,” Rhodey insisted. “It’s about Peter.”

“_Yeah, _Peter,” Tony repeated, tempered frustration lining his voice. “The same Peter who almost died a few months ago, the same Peter who we all thought _was _dead. The same damn Peter who I bought a _casket _for. Or am I the only one that seems to remember that? That _is _what started all this, after all.”

Natasha scoffed, eyes locked on the table in front of her. “It started something, all right.”

Tony placed two hands firmly on the table, leaning over and into Natasha’s space until they were nearly face-to-face.

Natasha didn’t so much as flinch when she looked up at him.

“Mother hen,” she pressed, “take a breather. Come off those eggs every now and then.”

Tony stood up straight, swiveling his head around to lock eyes on every team member in the room. None disputed Natasha, instead choosing to stay quiet, some with heads bowed low like Bruce.

Tony pointed his thumb to his chest, grounding his teeth together. “You guys got a problem with how I’m handling my kid?”

“No one has a problem, Tony,” Steve chided, hands in the air placaintingly. “Just...be careful. We all see how hard you’re trying with Peter. But the more you try to pull him closer to you, the further you may end up pushing him away. Trust me, I’m seeing it happen with —”

One look from Tony and Steve immediately got the hint.

The name still wasn’t welcomed.

“...someone else,” he opted on saying.

The lack of anyone running to his aid was more than enough for Tony to realize they all felt the same way.

Traitors, he figured, every last one of them.

He sighed so loud it blew cookie crumbles off the table, shrugging so dramatically his arms felt disconnected from the rest of his body.

“Fine!” Tony snapped, forcing in a deep breath to calm himself. “Fine, I’ll back off. But if I remember correctly, there were some of you in this very room that lectured me five months ago about _not _doing that to the kid.”

Rhodey rolled his eyes, throwing Tony a pointed look without even glancing in his direction. “You tend to go one extreme or the other, Tones.”

“Back to the, uh, the original point...” Bruce said, one single digit raised in the air. “I’d make sure Pete doesn’t have any interaction with...well, anyone related to the Osborn’s. If Norman _is _the brains to all this...who knows how dangerous he could be.”

Sam furrowed his brows. “I don’t think a high-schooler could do much damage, regardless of their last name.”

“No, maybe not...” Natasha trailed off, contemplative in a way she normally didn’t share with the group. “But being close Norman Osborn’s son is being one step closer to Norman himself.”

“Is it really fair to assume the kid is trouble because of his bloodline?” Sam was quick to rebut.

Natasha threw him a cold look. “People judged me based off my bloodline, and they were smart to do so.”

“Bruce is right,” Steve needlessly stated, putting an end to the dispute. “Peter’s already been a target before, we don’t want that happening again. Until we can get a grasp on this situation, he needs to keep his head low, stay far away from this.”

“Trust me, I’ve been trying.” Tony massaged the bridge of his nose, disdain coating his tongue, leaking deep into his words. “It’s like pulling teeth with the kid, he doesn’t want to do anything he’s told. I might as well be talking to a deaf monkey.”

The frustration Tony emitted was palpable, visible despite the sunglasses he used to hide his face. What once was a jab at his overly-strict parenting had quickly turned somber.

No one dared to make a joke now.

Despite his berating, no one had forgotten about what occurred only a handful of months ago. When a young, naive kid showed up at their door playing super-hero. Tony may have been the one to buy the casket, but they were all involved in one way or another.

It would be impossible to forget; it was a lesson learned that they all took to heart.

Possibly going through that again — it was a vast precipice to wrap their minds around.

“We’ll make sure that we do our part on this end,” Steve assured, looking Tony straight on. “We took Peter under our wing, we took on that responsibility. It’s our job to make sure he’s safe, make sure we protect him. Whatever happens here, whether he gets involved or not, he’ll be protected.”

Something clenched deep in Tony’s stomach as his gaze latched onto Steve’s, his doubt ebbing into a fierce fury of determination.

Steve reflected that determination right back at him.

“We _will _protect him, Tony.”

Tony nodded.

He had nothing more to add.

The meeting ended not with a conclusion, but rather with a long, drawn-out silence. Slowly, and one by one, they departed the kitchen with nothing more to say. Nothing more to note.

Hours later and the sun had set through the skylight of the kitchen, the day fading away with faint chirping of birds from the nearby woods. Dim overtones of orange and yellows cascaded over tables, chairs, and cabinets, and soon only moonlight shined through the windows from above.

The occupants of the afternoon had long since left, leaving room for those of the night.

“It tastes like candy.”

The contents of his bowl soaked up what otherwise would have been a resounding _CLATTER. _The noise was instead absorbed by milk and colorful pieces of what was advertised as a _‘healthy, nutritious breakfast.’_

From the face Bucky made, Peter assumed he had some doubts.

“I don’t know how you eat that garbage,” Bucky murmured, pushing the dish away with a grimace, smacking his lips with a look Peter figured was disgust. The man didn’t often show any expressions outside of...well, neutral. He was probably the hardest read Peter had encountered so far, and that included Natasha-Friggin-Romanoff.

With a shrug, Peter dug his spoon deep into his bowl.

“Fruity Pebbles aren’t bad. Not the greatest, but far from the worst.” He barely gave himself time to chew, swallowing down a mouthful and immediately going in for more. “I like the Cocoa Pebbles better, if I have to choose between the two. I think Clint likes Fruity Pebbles and that’s why he buys ‘em. They’re okay, but they’re no Cocoa Pebbles. Better than Cheerio’s — don’t like Cheerio’s, too dry, doesn’t flavor the milk at all.”

Bucky arched an eyebrow high. The cereal box sat between them on the kitchen table, blocking his complete view of Peter. Yet it didn’t stop him from eyeing the teenager, all while he devoured the nauseatingly sweet junk food.

“Right...” he drawled, craning his head slightly to the side to better see Peter — who noticed, and honestly didn’t seem to care.

It was late. Peter could feel it, his eyes heavy with bone-weary exhaustion that he couldn’t seem to shake. The clock against the stove highlighted past midnight, which became his usual time to wander down into the kitchen and grab a snack.

The only difference tonight was that Peter hadn’t even tried to go to sleep.

It was strange. Happy dropped him off at the compound around nine-ish, close to ten. It was unusual for a Friday, typically he came to the compound straight after school. But he had detention today, and he would for every day next week as well.

On top of that, Happy had given some excuse about needing to be in the city for a while, for something — Peter didn’t ask; it wasn’t like he’d get an answer anyway. And with May out of the apartment for a work thing, he used the time for patrolling.

Despite stopping four muggings and a car theft, he still couldn’t find the urge to go to sleep. He was tired, sure. Just not enough to risk sleeping.

He hadn’t even seen Mr. Stark yet.

It felt weird.

Really weird.

Friday’s always kicked off their weekend, they’d always be in the lab or workshop doing something or another. There was always pizza, and always music. He’d wrap up his homework for the week, and Mr. Stark would be focused working on whatever insane project he had going on.

Falling out of routine left him feeling odd, kind of empty inside.

Peter hated to admit it, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny it. He was avoiding Mr. Stark, ever since last weekend. Ever since —

“I think I know what’s keeping you up at night, kid.” Bucky squinted his eyes, his only arm having brought the cereal box close to his face. His left shoulder was covered in scarfs that smelt like farm animals. “These things are loaded with sugar...”

Peter rolled his eyes, quick to stuff his face with another spoonful of fruity bits colored like the rainbow.

“Hey, don’t at me,” he garbled, words mixed with chewed up cereal nearly causing him to spit milk out of his mouth. “You guys used cocaine for like, Tylenol or whatever back in your day.”

Bucky’s eyebrows rocketed high, seen easily over the long strands of hair that covered parts of his face.

“I’m old, punk...but I ain’t _that _old.” Bucky wagged the cereal box in his direction, little-to-no-contents inside rattling through the plastic bag. “You really need to brush up on your history.”

Peter groaned, briefly closing his eyes in defeat. “Don’t remind me.”

The taunting image of a bright red _sixty percent _written over his World History essay still burned in his eyes. And of course, that happened to be the one and only class he was practically failing. Not only would flunking mean being kicked off Decathlon for the entire school year, but it would also mean losing his scholarship for Midtown Science and Technology.

Ned was worried about him having to transfer schools. Peter was worried about something else entirely.

He brought his spoon into his mouth, gazing off at the refrigerator with a blank stare. Peter knew he’d have a way to stay at school, keep his classes, keep his friends — all if it really came to that.

But the idea of Mr. Stark paying for his semesters felt wrong. It felt like chewing broken glass, swallowing it and throwing it back up.

His parents got him that scholarship.

Uncle Ben always bragged about him having that scholarship.

He couldn’t lose that scholarship.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught the blur of the cereal box being whisked away.

“Hey!” He reached for it blindly, a failed attempt as Bucky quickly yanked his arm back.

“It’s empty,” he dryly insisted, shaking it to prove his point. “And clearly rotting your brain.”

Peter watched with furrowed brows as Bucky ambled over to the garbage can, dumping his totally-not-empty and still-had-half-a-bowls-worth of cereal into the trash bag.

So not cool.

“The cereal is fine, dude,” Peter gestured his arm out, stick straight, all in-vain. “I eat it _after _I wake up. It makes me feel better...I think.”

Bucky gave him a side-eye — a look that made Peter realize his defense clearly needed some work — but he said nothing, pulling the fridge open and reaching inside, searching the contents with an audible hum.

“Still got those nightmares?” Bucky didn’t look his way as he spoke, popping off the lid to his beer with the bottle opener attached underneath the kitchen cabinet

Peter ran a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp while the other held his spoon a little too tightly.

“Do you?” He didn’t ask with animosity, there was no bite to his tone. Peter was genuinely curious.

Bucky took a long swig of his beer, and one more for good measure. He was still facing away from Peter when he finally answered.

“Always.”

The pause that followed wasn’t silent; Peter fiddled with his spoon, clanking it against the sides of his bowl. Bucky let out a burp, a sniff, and ultimately he walked back over to the table, his combat boots loud against the stone flooring. He pulled out his stool with no consideration to the expensive material, the legs screeching along the way.

Bucky looked over the beer bottle with little to no interest, turning it over and reading the back like he had the cereal box.

Peter watched as he did. And though he obviously didn’t drink, Peter noticed that the beer in the fridge was never the same. It was always weird stuff, never anything he saw at the deli’s or grocery stores. He had assumed it was another thing Clint would bring back with him from the farm.

“Do yours ever change?” Peter asked, aiming for casual and missing the mark completely. Bucky didn’t even look away from his beer bottle. “Like, do you ever dream up anything different?”

Bucky noticeably ran his tongue across his teeth, taking a moment to deliberate on a response. Peter waited patiently as he did, considering eating the remains of his cereal but too afraid any noise might ruin the chance of getting an answer.

“Sometimes,” he said, holding in a burp with a closed fist tight against his mouth. “Sometimes I’m falling. Other times I’m —”

There was no lingering trail to Bucky’s words. They cut off suddenly, his mouth clamped shut quickly, releasing a heavy breath through his nose. His eyes drifted down to the floor, suddenly lost somewhere very far from a kitchen in the middle of upstate New York.

Peter wondered if he should say anything.

He had a gut feeling that he shouldn’t.

“Sometimes,” Bucky finally settled on murmuring.

Peter nodded...and nodded, and nodded — around the fourth nod and he started to feel awkward, holding the handle to his spoon so tight he could feel it bend beneath his grasp.

“I can’t shake the same dream,” he blurted out, hating himself in every way possible the moment the words left his lips.

Luckily for him, it was the thing that got Bucky to look his way.

“Drowning?” he asked, setting his beer bottle down. The condescension began to drip down the amber bottle and create a puddle on the table.

The words rang in Peter’s brain. They seemed too simple, too nonthreatening, and yet...

He paused before nodding. “Yeah.”

Bucky hummed.

Peter put _way _too much thought into that hum.

He had also definitely bent the spoon by now.

“Ever drowned before?” Bucky asked, so nonchalantly it made Peter feel like they were talking about baseball cards or some nonsense.

His eyes shifted away from almost-certainly-soggy cereal and back up to Bucky. “I think so?”

There was no hum this time, no look or expression that made Peter think Bucky was listening. He had a feeling his answer wasn’t satisfactory. It wouldn’t surprise him, nothing he did lately was.

“I dunno,” Peter forced out, shrugging. “I don’t remember much of what happened. Down there. Like, in the ocean or whatever. Just bits and pieces, and like...what everyone told me.” Peter struggled to breathe in an inhale desperately needed after so many words, his chest growing heavy, cramping with constriction that narrowed his windpipe. “I think I dream of the things I don’t remember.”

“Sounds about right,” Bucky said without missing a beat, mostly spoken into the open top of his beer bottle. He took a swig, a large gulp that bounced his Adams Apple. “Mind’s fucked up. It likes to remember things you wanna forget.”

Peter wasn’t expecting an answer full of hope and optimism — he hadn’t known Bucky longer than a few weeks, but he’d gotten the hint early on that the _Winter Solider _wasn’t exactly full of rainbows and cotton candy.

Still, the feeling of his heart plummeting down to his sock-clad feet left him feeling nauseous, suddenly unable to entertain the idea of eating another spoonful of his rainbow-colored cereal.

It wasn’t that he wanted to be lied too. It was just that he didn’t want to feel like _this. _

Whatever _this _was.

“Do you?” Peter asked quietly, not really sure he wanted an answer. “Remember...things…?”

The kitchen fell silent.

Peter looked down, past his bowl of cereal and at the littered crumbs he’d just now realized were there. They were from a cake or cookies, whatever mess the snack created never having been cleaned up. Without much thought, his index finger pushed them aside, one by one, each crumbling underneath the pressure of his skin.

“Always.”

Bucky’s quiet voice did nothing in a room full of stillness.

Peter heard.

Even when practically a whisper, words spoken only in exhale, the bite in his tone was harsh enough to rattle everything within and around them.

Peter decided not to respond, not directly, not acknowledge what felt like a topic of pins and needles and bad things he didn’t need to get into.

If there was one thing being around The Avengers made him realize, it was that he was young. Very young, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. And so long as he was, there were too many things he’d never be taken seriously for. Too many things he didn’t understand.

Peter stared down at his milk, the swirls from colorful cereal pieces slowly circling in an amiss direction. The pink cereal bits always did saturate the milk the most, staining what once was white and turning it into a light pink.

Peter narrowed his eyes. His milk looked different, darker. What should have been a light pink was suddenly turning dark – very dark.

A drop of red liquid fell from his nose and _plopped _right into the bowl.

“Crap!” Peter cursed, scooting his stool back, nearly falling over in a sudden, panicked rush.

Bucky craned his head up and around, mildly startled, mostly confused. He arched an eyebrow but otherwise said nothing as Peter stumbled to the other side of the kitchen.

“Sorry! Sorry, I – crap, uhm...” Peter brushed him off with one hand while the other pulled recklessly at a roll of paper towels. His fingers quickly stained the whole thing, from top to bottom, covering it in warm clots of blood that gushed out from his nose. “Sorry, I gotta —”

Peter pinched his nostrils tightly and held his head back, nearly gagging at the taste that began to trickle into his mouth. He held in his panic, the best that he could.

The pungent liquid seeped into his throat and coated his tongue, each swallow leaving him fighting the urge to dry heave. What the _hell _— he rushed to get more paper towels, the wad pressed tightly against his face quickly growing wet and weak. He hadn’t gotten nose-bleeds this bad since elementaryschool.It was so long ago that he had forgotten just how nasty they could be.

He also didn’t think it was possible to get them anymore. Not since —

“You good?” Bucky asked.

Peter pulled the handful of paper towels away from his face, his stomach twisting into painful knots when he saw the damage first hand.

They were soaked.

Not good.

“I’m good!” Peter croaked out, quickly unrolling a fresh bunch of napkins, as much as he could with one hand. It was enough to mummify himself if he wanted to. “Just, uh...just got these nose bleeds lately. No big deal. It’s good — I mean, uh, I’m good.”

Peter swallowed what he was almost positive felt like a blood clot. Suddenly, the realization that Fruity Pebbles wouldn’t taste as good coming back up made him want to swear off the cereal for life.

Behind him, Bucky cleared his throat, turning around in his stool with his beer bottle still in hand.

“You oughta tell an adult,” he dryly stated.

Even through wads of paper towels, Peter made a face.

“You’re an adult.”

Perhaps if he wasn’t surrounded by bloody tissues, Peter would have been taken more seriously.

Bucky looked him head-on and deadpanned, “You oughta tell a better adult.”

Peter rolled his eyes as he turned around to face the kitchen sink, the happiest he’d ever been in his entire life for automatic sensors. The water turned on at his presence, and he leaned over to rinse off his hands and splash cold water to his face.

He tried not to notice how long the water ran pink, the color as unsettling now as it was in the milk of his cereal. It was even harder to ignore how many chunks of dark red gunk he pulled from his nostrils, each blow of his nose giving way to more and more of a bloody mess.

Just when he thought it wouldn’t end, and after literally emptying the whole roll of paper towels, Peter was relieved to feel no more of his insides pouring out of him.

“It’s fine,” he insisted, this time with more confidence behind his words. “I’m fine. Probably just like, the air quality in here or something.”

His excuse didn’t account for the three bloody noses he had at home, or the four he had at school. But Peter chose to believe it anyway.

“Yeah...” Bucky drawled out, nodding. “Or something.”

Peter could feel eyes on him while he trashed the mess that had been created. Dirty, blood-soaked napkins landed in the garbage bin right on top of the cartoon characters decorating the box of cereal. He didn’t need to look at Bucky to know the man didn’t believe him, but he caught sight of the expression regardless once he sat back down at the kitchen table.

There was a pause between them, even after Peter got comfortable in his stool again.

Bucky was staring at him.

Peter wiped at his nose, pulling his hand away to make sure he’d done a proper job of cleaning himself up.

“You know, kid...” Bucky finally spoke up, a swig of his beer preempting his next words. “I got no problems listening to you and all, but, uh…”

Peter looked away; not that Bucky was looking at him anymore, having wandered his eyes to whatever nearest appliance sat in the kitchen. Without realizing it, Peter began to cave in on himself, shoulders pulled so inward they might as well have touched the table below him.

“You’d be a lot better off spending your time with someone who can actually help you.” Bucky sniffed, clearing his throat a few times before adding, “I ain’t that somebody.”

Though he had no intention of eating any more of his cereal, Peter grabbed the handle to his spoon, bent and crooked at a funky angle. He held onto it tightly as he shrugged.

“I don’t need help,” he said lamely, his hand fidgeting with the silverware. Each spasm of his fingers made a rattling sound of metal-against-metal, his nerves having no rhythm to the song created. “It’s just...easy talking to you. That’s all.”

Bucky tipped his head, bangs further hiding his eyes.

“Uh-huh, sure...whatever you say.” With one hand, he pushed his hair aside, looking even more tired without the long, brown strands hiding his face. Only the dim lights from underneath the cabinets highlighted his features, and with it, he leveled Peter with a serious look. “But it ain’t gunna do you any good. We’re both messed up if we don’t get what help we need.”

Peter’s erratic fidgeting increased. If his fingers moved any faster, he’d shatter the bowl.

“Have you gotten help?” he asked.

Bucky finished off his beer with a satisfied exhale, though his next words were far from content. “Steve wants me to.”

Peter arched an eyebrow, his spoon slipping from his fingers and dropping straight into the ruined bowl of cereal.

“Have you?”

A look flashed across Bucky’s face, one that Peter couldn’t decipher. It lingered for a second, possibly two, but not long enough for Peter to try and figure it out.

It was gone by the time he leaned forward and snatched his bowl away.

“Don’t know how you eat this shit,” Bucky mumbled, taking both dishes in his hands while pushing back his stool, walking away from the table with a scoff sounding deep in his chest. “It’s too damn sweet.”

Peter blinked, too tired to comprehend what had just happened.

He watched with half-lidded eyes as Bucky went straight to the kitchen sink, dumping both bowls of cereal down the drain. A once-over on the clock next to him and Peter realized it was quickly approaching one a.m, as quickly as the sudden bout of exhaustion that weighed him down like lead.

He was tired. _Really _tired.

And he had training in the afternoon.

With a yawn that stretched his mouth wide and cracked his jaw, suddenly, all Peter wanted to do was sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m bringing Science Bro’s back like it’s 2012.
> 
> A gentle reminder, because I know this story is unfolding slowly, and while I see the end in sight it's much different for those reading along. This is a _journey._ So the character's behaviors now, will not be the characters behaviors at the end. 
> 
> My prime example is the _journey_ that Tony got to take in Identity Theft. He went from not knowing what place Peter had in his life, to deciding that he'd be a pseudo-father to this little nerdy wannabe superhero, no matter what the cost. If you haven't caught on yet, Peter has his own journey happening here. He doesn't _know_ how he feels about Tony acting all fatherly and daddish (because Tony is doing a flat out horrible job at it. C'mon Tony, ease off the gas pedal, cool your jets a little. That's the second journey he gets to go through) and because of Tony's over-bearing behavior, Peter is pulling away. 
> 
> This will come back around in the end. I assure you. I am an Irondad fan through and through. By the end of this, Peter will come to see Tony as a dad, and surprisingly enough he'll be grateful for is overbearing methods. Although Tony's going to learn to back off at times. 
> 
> I mean, c'mon guys. It's not fun without conflict.
> 
> Alright, but for reals folks – for really reals. It’s been a SLOW build up in this fic. I know a lot of ya’ll have gotten impatient, wondering when things are going to get good, going to get interesting... 
> 
> So when shit hits the fan in this next chapter, I don’t want any of ya’ll to get mouthy on me.
> 
> You’re being warned now. Chapter 11 “Screwed the Pooch” – no mouthyness. This is what you came here for. It’s going to get bad before it gets good.
> 
> It’s going to get so, so bad.
> 
> I’m so sorry.


	11. Screwed the Pooch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild disclaimer for this chapter.
> 
> It's not gunna make you feel good.
> 
> Characters are nasty to each other here. Things are said. Bad things are done. And overall this is just NOT a feel-good chapter. 
> 
> I'm sorry. 😬

“Alright, fists high.” Steve pulled his shoulders back tautly, his forearms up and guarding his face with steadfast precision. “There you go, just like that.”

Peter tried to shake out the jitters in his muscles before mimicking Steve’s moves, hesitant once he did, double-checking himself to make sure he and his trainer looked the same. They stood less than a few feet apart yet managed to be close enough that the smell of overpowering mint was clear as day, wafting from Steve’s breath like a gum factory had just exploded.

Or — wait, crap. Was that coming from him?

Peter sealed his mouth shut until his lips disappeared completely. He hadn’t meant to sleep through his alarm...or the six others he set just in case. Had it not been for the SHIELD soldiers whizzing by his quarters like Gorillas on crack, there was no chance he’d be standing in the gym right now. He made it here just in time, devouring an entire thing of Tic-Tacs on the way to cover up his morning-slash-afternoon breath.

Another whiff of Polar Ice mint and Peter realized he may have overdone it on the Tic-Tacs.

“Okay, let’s get started. I want today’s time to be spent reviewing and correcting what few things I was able to notice last session. And, uh...what I could feel.” Steve smiled. His white teeth gleamed in a way that bled the tension away from the whole unspoken _‘__you really beat me up good for a second, punk_.’

“First and foremost — Peter, you need to stop pulling your punches,” he instructed, chin low, face serious. “There’s only one way we can teach you how to fight, and that’s to fight.”

Standing off to the side at the bleachers, Natasha smirked. “Those are some wise words, colossal fossil.”

Steve gave her a half-amused look, acknowledging her remark with only a glance and nothing more. He turned back to Peter, readjusting his guard.

“Your strength is safe here. Don’t hesitate. You dodge well, you dodge great, actually. But you can’t avoid everything in the midst of combat.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter gave a wobbly nod, letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He dropped his arms for a moment, pushing back his hair and sweeping it from his eyes. One day he’d learn to bring a sweatband to these sessions.

“Second, and this one’s important.” Steve gripped his hands, clenching and unclenching the hold on his fists. “Too often, you went for the instinct to repeat the same attack. More than once, more than what you should.”

Peter tried — and failed — not to feel insanely intimidated by the flex in Steve’s arms. His muscles looked bigger than his own head, every single one coming out to say _good morning, how you do?_ The longer Peter stared, the more he realized Steve would make a great diagram for anatomy class. Much better than the decade-old dummy Midtown had, the one missing a leg and half of its abdominal muscles.

Jeeze, the man was _ripped. _Not new knowledge, of course. After all, he did have to watch Captain America during every single detention session he managed to get himself into. Everyone and their mother knew he had muscles that made bodybuilders jealous. But Peter had to admit, it was way more noticeable when so close to him.

It was also impossible to not suddenly feel very self-conscious in his size medium, ratty and worn out t-shirt.

“I just figured...if it works once, ya know?” Peter chuckled, swinging his fists about like a boxer. “Go at ‘em again!”

His own nervous laughter was like nails against a chalkboard to his ears. Peter wanted to rip out his vocal cords and let Steve crumble them in his big-goofy-massively flexed arms. Or hand them off to Midtown, give them to Dave the Anatomy Dummy. Now that he was thinking about it, Peter was pretty sure the mannequin was missing part of his throat too.

Sometimes he wondered where the school spent most of their budget.

“Fair enough,” Steve spoke up, shifting slightly on his feet. “But if you’re defending yourself from an attack, and that assailant is going in for the same hit, you won’t need your spider-sense to know what’s coming. It’s predictable. Predictable is dangerous. You gotta keep them on their toes.”

“Like I am right now, _pauk-rebenok.” _

Natasha drew their attention to the bleachers, where she stood high on the front end of her flats, a skill only an experienced ballerina could achieve.

“On their toes.”

She grinned, even when Steve threw her an exasperated glare.

Peter laughed. Not even a second later, he was quick to stifle the noise behind one of his closed fists, stuffing the sounds deep into his fingers.

Steve sighed and shook his head. His impatience when wasting time during training was commonly known — or at least it was made _very _known to Peter today before their session started. They already wasted time last week, what with the whole blood sugar passing out incident.

The last thing Peter wanted was to get on the Captain’s bad side. He swallowed his laughter down, clearing his throat to rid any remaining chuckles.

Still, Natasha heard him, stifled laughs and all. She shot him a wink that cooled him down better than any of the ceiling fans from above.

It was weird – awesomely weird, anyhow. There was something about Natasha’s ability to put him at ease that made him drop his guard. Made him feel a lot more comfortable than the butterflies that wreaked havoc on his nerves, knotting his insides into a bundled mess.

Those nerves only got more tangled and messy when seeing Steve and the physique he was up against.

Not that Peter was up against _anything. _He knew that. In his head, he really knew that it wasn’t a competition, wasn’t a comparison.

But he was still a teenage boy. And perhaps he’d gotten a little used to being the most swole in the locker room.

“If you go for the eye—”

A tight knot grew at the base of his skull. A ringing that screamed _DANGER. _

Steve swung straight at his head, stopping short of making actual contact.

“Then swing next for the knee.”

Not an eyelash could bat before he crouched down low.

Peter jolted back, ready to dodge attacks that weren’t ever planned to land.

Steve stood up straight. There was a look in his eyes, silently asking Peter if he understood.

Three training sessions in now — and Peter really hoped three times would be the charm — and he was starting to learn more than he ever thought possible.

At least for him_, _Peter Parker of all people.

Before this — before Mr. Stark, and the suit, and The Avengers — all Peter ever did was rely on his newfound powers to get him through his patrol’s robberies and muggings. Basic friendly neighborhood stuff, crazy Vulture guy aside. Though Steve’s jacked physique easily intimidated him, he was overwhelmingly happy with the tips and tricks they were teaching him.

Watch out, criminals of New York City. A new and _trained _Spider-man was on the way.

“Yeah, yeah, I think I got it,” Peter ratted off, “but, uhm...should I..._always _do that? Or should I rotate out? Or should I —”

“You play video games, right, Pete?” Natasha called out, voicing echoing slightly from a distance. “Just think of it as up, down, left, left, down, up, right.”

Peter couldn’t help but bark out a laugh this time, the dorky sound widening the smirk on Natasha’s face. He lost his stance, turning to shoot her a look of disbelief and bewilderment, but mostly amusement.

She waggled her eyebrows at him, so comically that Peter couldn’t resist sticking his tongue out at her.

Awesomely weird or not, it was nice. For being someone who could turn an entire room ice cold upon entrance, it was like Natasha didn’t try so hard with him. Like she didn’t _have _to try.

Peter liked that about her.

Was he becoming friends with the Black Widow? Holy cow, Ned had to know about this, asap.

“Alright, bring it back in.” Steve waved his hand at Peter, motioning inwards. “You have a lot of untapped potential, son. I have a good feeling that once we —”

“Underoo’s!”

The shout burst through the gym, almost as loudly as the doors that flew right open.

Peter whizzed his head around, catching an object mid-air and inches before it could smack him in the face.

What the —? He looked down at his hand, confused even as he opened his clenched fist to examine the object squeezed between his palm.

It was a calorie bar. The nasty kind, wrapped in nothing but plain silver packaging. The one difference that stood out were the words _‘Spider-boy’ _written in Sharpie across it.

Peter looked back up, his face immediately dropping.

“What are you doing here?” he practically hissed, voice so high pitched it gave cartoon characters a run for their money.

He didn’t care. It was hard to be bothered, what with his stomach doing that flip-flop thing that made him incredibly sticky with sweat, the back of his shirt already dampening in wetness. A sudden bout of rough seesawing to his head nearly stole his balance, his knees buckling and wobbling briefly.

“And good morning to you, too, sunshine.” Tony stopped a few feet short of closing the distance between them, the double-doors far behind still swinging back and forth from his grand and unexpected entrance.

Bruce was on his tail, walking a lot slower while juggling a laptop in his hands. He barely gave a wave to the others; his reluctant presence clearer than the squeaky clean windows lining the gym walls.

Peter fought to find his voice again. “Mr. Stark —”

“You look tired.” Tony cocked his head to the side, giving Peter a long once-over. “You sleep at all last night?”

Peter knew his eyes were as wide as saucers – but he couldn’t shake the shock long enough to fix them.

“I slept – I slept _fine, _I —” he stammered, unable to pull the words from his brain long enough to string together something that sounded remotely coherent.

Mr. Stark was here_. _In front of him. When he absolutely wasn’t supposed to be. They had agreed training sessions were Steve’s thing. Lab nights were Tony’s.

Was this because they didn’t even see each other last night? It had been lab night — their night — and Peter was clearly avoiding him, and they both knew it, and he really didn’t want to deal with this right now but he was here. And there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

“I was up for a while, had homework. I’m fine,” Peter rushed out, so fast he could barely even understand himself.

Tony met his eyes. Peter forced himself to look away.

It wasn’t a lie. He was up for a while, and he did have homework. It just so happened that Peter chose to hang out with Bucky instead, at least until he felt good enough to sleep. Which wasn’t until close to four in the morning. But none of what he said was a lie.

“Up late, then?” Tony raised his eyebrows, high enough that they peaked over his fancy sunglasses. “I don’t believe I caught the aftermath of your usual ravaging in your kitchen. You eat at all?”

From across the way, Natasha coughed — loudly. “_Mother-hen!” _

Everyone but Peter looked towards her; Peter was sure Tony gave himself whiplash from how quickly his head spun around, faster than a rocket.

He barely paid attention, definitely didn’t care. His grip on the calorie bar tightened, clamping down on it hard enough for the nasty granola pieces to crumble and break. Opening it now would only be a mess.

“Mr. Stark...” Peter bit his tongue – literally, the force of his teeth puncturing the soft tissue inside his mouth. His voice was low, irritated, and under his breath. “I’m good. I ate.”

“Yeah?” Tony gestured an open palm his way. “What’d you have?”

Steve took a few steps to the side, closer to where Tony stood, making a noise that sounded oddly close to clearing his throat.

Tony noticed.

He glanced at Steve. Glanced at Peter. Gave Natasha a look that appeared to be more of a heated glare.

Finally, he turned back to Peter with a snap of his fingers.

“No need to answer. That’s only something I would ask if I didn’t have complete, absolute, endless faith in your capabilities to take care of yourself like the responsible, young adult you are.” Tony walked ahead, giving a firm pat on Peter’s shoulder. “My favorite young adult, at that. One of the best.”

Peter looked down at his shoulder, staring at where Tony’s hand rested.

“Uh...that’s...thank you?” He shook his head and the daze that clouded it. “Why exactly are you and Doctor B here?”

The question came so suddenly that there was no hiding his objection at Tony’s presence. Even Bruce gave him an odd look, mostly hidden by his laptop, but still there to be seen.

“This _is _my building, in case you’ve forgotten.” Tony pointed his thumb towards Bruce, already across the gym and sitting on the bleachers. “And Bruce lives here, so I can’t help where he goes. It’s open terrain.”

For possibly the first time since entering the gym, Bruce looked up from his laptop with a look so aggravated the others worried it might turn green.

“Yeah, but like...” Peter kept his voice hushed, moving closer to Tony to keep the others from hearing. “Do you have to be here..._now?_”

Tony took off his sunglasses with one hand, pocketing them into his blazer with ease.

“I like to check in on my investments from time to time. See what progress is being made, how the horizon is looking, all that good stuff. Besides, don’t forget who’s suggestion it was to arrange these little kumbaya’s. You wouldn’t have a _Captain America’s Training Tips _notebook if it weren’t for moi.”

The self-pointed gesture Tony gave was enough to make the paparazzi jealous they weren’t there to capture it.

Peter made a face. “You said this was my aunt’s idea.”

“I freed up some time this afternoon,” Tony continued on without missing a beat, “decided to see what the hoopla is about with this...what are you calling it, Cap? Spider Boot Camp? Tactical Webinars?”

“Training, Tony.” Steve sighed, shaking his head. “No clever names. We’re just training.”

Tony looked at them with a studious glare, lips pursed tightly, head to the side in a way showed he had five million different thoughts running through his mind.

Peter rolled his eyes, staring up at the gym ceiling for what felt like an eternity. This was exactly why he’d been avoiding Mr. Stark for nearly two weeks now. One moment everything was cool, everything was alright, he was having _fun. _Now it was tense and weird and —

“Well!” Tony clapped his hands together, the sound ripping Peter straight out of his thoughts. “Training, then. Right. I thought it was about time I checked out this little training rendezvous. And, preventive measures after last week’s ruckus, I came by to provide a healthy snack for the growing spiderling. You’re welcome.”

Peter’s eyebrows knitted tightly. A snack?

He looked down at his hand, suddenly remembering the calorie bar he’d been holding.

A snack.

A _snack._

Even after all he said, after everything they fought about, even as he trained with the-freaking-Avengers — Mr. Stark was _still _treating him like a kid.

Peter handed it over to him, jaw set. “I said I already ate. I’m good.”

The granola bar split the distance between them, hanging in the air where Peter refused to take it back, no matter how long he had to wait. He’d throw it across the gym before eating it. Hell, even if he was hungry, the things tasted like both dirt and chalk had a baby covered in mud.

It’d be just his luck to throw up all over Captain America’s shoes. He wasn’t taking the chance.

For the longest time, Tony stared at it. Not Peter, not Steve or Natasha or even Bruce clicking away at his laptop. He stared directly at the calorie bar, Peter’s hand covering up the _Spider _in _Spider-boy. _

“Then I will just...keep this for after the show.” Tony snatched it from his hand, tapping it against Peter’s shoulder with a forced grin. “That’s what they say, right? Protein after a hard work-out?”

“Tony,” Steve firmly said, his eyes directing Tony over to the bleachers. “We were about to start.”

Peter wanted to point out that Tony was walking in the wrong direction to be leaving, only to come to the painful realization that he had no plans to head towards the exit. He was already at the bleachers by the time Peter wanted to scream into a pillow. Or punch it. Or both.

“Don’t let me stop you gentlemen.” Tony smirked, pointing towards Natasha. “And gentle-spy. I’ll just be observing, doing my own thing. Oh, and if anyone decides to give the floor a little smooch and kiss, the doctor is in the house this time.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow as Tony brushed past her. “What did he bribe you with, Bruce?”

Peering up from his laptop, Bruce gave her a scolding look. “I’d like to keep my dignity intact and not answer that.”

As much as he would have loved to, Peter couldn’t make light of the situation. Every organ inside of him was still twisting into knots and to make matters worse, he swore he felt dizzy — the kind of dizzy where he knew sitting down was a good idea, but he was too proud to look weak in the moment. Not with Mr. Stark watching him, eyeing him, judging his every move.

The _last _thing he wanted right now was an audience.

Why couldn’t Mr. Stark just leave him be? Why couldn’t this just be a thing for him and only him?

“Peter,” Steve quietly asked. “You good?”

Absolutely not.

“Great,” Peter answered, adjusting his stance with his arms held high and fist clenched tightly. “Let’s do this.”

Peter couldn’t blame Steve for his hesitance, or the once-over he proceeded to give. What could he say, his lying had gotten rusty lately — the downside to both his aunt and closest friends discovering his most closely hidden secrets.

Still, he must have retained some ability to fudge the truth, because ultimately Steve backed away with a nod.

“Natasha, you’re up,” he called out, passing her by as she approached the center of the gym.

Natasha stretched her neck and pulled at her arms, warming up her muscles while Peter felt his harden up like raw meat thrown in a freezer.

“Remember,” Natasha gently said. “Like a video game.”

Peter took a steadying breath and nodded. He could do this. And hey, maybe now that she was showing signs of liking him, perhaps she’d take it easy on him this time around.

Before Peter could even blink, Natasha’s gaze hardened, all signs of humor gone.

It was fascinating, downright terrifying how she could turn a switch so quickly. One moment he saw her smiling, and the next —

Oh crap, was she running?

Peter threw up his arms, clenched fist protecting his face in a steadfast panic.

It was Ned who liked to remind him, on the daily, that The Black Widow was a trained killer. An assassin. She probably knew five hundred ways to kill him with one single touch and the most Peter could do?

He could dodge.

“Hold steady, Parker!” Steve called out, his voice thundering over Natasha’s pounding footsteps. And holy cow did they pound, stomping on the ground like a bull. “She can take you on. You do _not _hold back!”

Peter gulped. Tunnel vision blurred his eyes at the edges, the figure speeding towards him getting closer, closer, closer —

“Gotcha!” Peter snagged Natasha’s forearm, gripping it with both his hands.

Her full-force momentum was just the advantage he needed, her pace giving him just the right amount of force to swing her around. Disorienting her, dizzying her. A Spider-Carousal for all to see, all inclusive, free ticket to the ride.

“Off you go!” Peter released his grip, fully expecting to see a blur of red hair soar across the gym, for her to land clumsily on her butt and give him the ultimate upper-hand.

It was only at that moment that he realized why Natasha wore ballerina slippers when training.

Her feet skidded along the smooth gym floor, her body gliding back gracefully as if she were on ice.

Peter cocked his head to the side.

Huh. Go figure.

Not even half-way into the drift and she crouched low, fingertips scratching along the glossy, maple tiles, veering her into a complete stop.

Natasha looked up, her hair whipping back in a red blur – just not the type he was expecting. Her eyes were dead-locked on him.

Peter gulped. Again.

“Sorry, Uncle Ben,” he muttered under his breath. Two closed fits blocked his face, and he peaked through them slightly, watching as Natasha came sprinting full-speed back towards him. “I know you insisted I shouldn’t hit girls, but...”

His punch landed with a _CRACK._

The hollers from the bleachers were mixed.

“That’s it, Spider-man!” Steve chanted.

“Oh!” Bruce winced in sympathy. “That can’t feel good.”

“Where the hell did you learn to fight, kid?” Tony was the last to holler.

Peter grimaced, shooting him a look and a dramatic shrug. “I learned a lot from movies, okay?”

Peter couldn’t keep the conversation going had he wanted to — something hard collided in the middle of his chest, stealing the wind right out of his lungs.

He swung his head around, Natasha’s fist long gone from contact on the science pun _‘__Cell-fie’_ printed across his t-shirt.

She wasn’t in front of him. She had been right in front of him, where did she —

Fast reflexes and the piercing hum of his spider-sense had his feet swiveling around before the kick could land across his back.

Peter grabbed her leg mid-assault, yanking her close. She escaped in milliseconds, somersaulting backward, her other leg swinging high in the air.

_THUNK._

The heel of her foot knocked into his chin. His jaw cracked, his teeth bounced against themselves at impact.

Peter rubbed gingerly at his mouth, his look turning sour.

“Not cool, man,” he teased, adopting a light tone. “I got school pictures next week.”

Standing by the bleachers, his arms folded tightly across his chest, Steve turned to look at Tony with an expression of pure, unadulterated bewilderment.

“Does he always talk this much when fighting?”

Tony adjusted himself, his eyes set straight ahead as he watched the sparring unfold.

“I considered adding a mute function to his suit and permanently enabling it,” he dryly mentioned. “Shoulda seen him —”

“Ack!”

In the middle of the gym, Peter barely dashed away before Natasha could strangle him with her legs. They both landed bottom-down on the floors, their grunts and groans louder than the smack of their own bodies.

Peter blinked, hard, before scrambling to his feet. It was official — fighting Natasha was the hardest he’d fought in months, possibly the hardest he’d fought _ever._

One time excluded. Of course. And they were both Russian’s. Just his luck.

He shook his head of the thought, brushing off his pants as he eyed Natasha across the way, struggling to stand up. A clear opening – Peter shot his head over to Steve, the uncertainty of his next moves radiating off him.

Steve merely nodded.

Permission to beat up an Avenger would remain the _weirdest _thing of his entire life.

Still, Peter took a deep breath in, running towards Natasha with sneakers skidding to a stop short of where she laid.

“Hit me.”

Natasha’s eyebrows rocketed to her hairline. She rolled onto her knees, her eyes never leaving him for a second.

“_Never _tell your attacker to —”

“I can’t just swing at you. Not without you going first, not without — I can’t, okay?” Peter was breathing heavy; he wasn't sure if it was from exertion or nerves. “I can _do_ this. I can spar or fight or whatever, but it really, _really _helps if you throw the first punch and I think that’s just — ack!”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut before Natasha’s foot ever made contact on his chest. He fell to one knee, grabbing his side with a few choice swear words restrained tightly in his mouth.

By the time he cracked one eye open, Natasha was standing over him.

“Didn’t Han shoot first, Peter?” she asked, a smirk gleaming on her lips. “Don’t you wanna be like Han Solo?”

Peter arched an eyebrow, forcing himself onto his feet.

“I see myself more like Luke, to be honest, but — _opmfh!_” Peter bit back a shout, the heel of Natasha’s foot having made what felt like a permanent dent in his chest. “Pretty sure I just heard a rib break. Or maybe a spleen. Do spleens break?”

Any concern for his internal organs was dismissed in one swift tug. Natasha clenched tightly onto the collar of his t-shirt, yanking him forward until there wasn’t any space remaining between them.

“Drop the doubt,” her voice was bone-chillingly soft, spoken so quietly only he could hear. Her breath was hot on his cheeks, already flushed red. “You’re a fighter. You’re capable of this. We know it, we’ve seen it.”

Peter gulped. “Yeah, but —”

“Why are you so unsure of yourself?” Natasha cocked her head to the side, loosening the grip on his collar by a smidgen. “Why now?”

Peter’s throat bobbed as he fought for the air to speak, his chest quaking in ways that made it hard to concentrate. None of the words in his head felt right, nothing seemed like the right thing to say.

He didn’t know how to respond to something that he hadn’t realized before.

She was right. This wasn’t because she was the Black Widow. It wasn’t because she was an Avenger.

He was capable of this. And he was unsure of himself.

“I could hurt you,” his mouth spoke before he could wrap his mind around it.

Natasha stared for a moment, her look solidifying into something cold, hard and consuming.

“Like you hurt him?”

Peter’s fingers clenched together even tighter, hands wrapped into fists, nails digging into the tissues of his palms.

His head felt five times heavier as he nodded, like cement pouring into the holes of his skull.

“That feeling you have right now?” Natasha released the hold on his collar, tossing him back as he stumbled on the balls of his feet. “Use it.”

Peter caught his balance, just barely. Natasha had separated them by a good few feet, enough running space for a head-start.

Or so it seemed. His vision grew fuzzy, creating a duplicate Natasha that he knew wasn’t really there.

With a hard swallow, Peter took a deep breath. There was no running away this time, no distractions to end things early, nothing that would grant his wish of doing anything _but _this. It was the time to prove himself, with the eyes of Captain America and Iron Man locked straight on him, and the Black Widow ahead taunting him on.

He wanted to be an Avenger, right?

Peter pushed onto his feet, sprinting the distance between them. He charged Natasha, fist flailing, muscles tense and locked.

He could do this.

He could prove his worth.

He could fight.

Natasha was ready. One fast straight punch and she caught his fist, soft hands wrapping around his with surprisingly strength. Peter whipped around his body around, arching sideways, all his momentum thrown towards a distraction punch – thrown lower, hitting harder.

Everything Cap told him to do.

She lunged, he dodged. She’d punch, he’d throw it back.

For one long moment, there was no thinking. Their movements cut through the air like bullets, swift, harsh. The pace sped up as quickly as his breathing, each inhale out of his control, every choke for air a rapid, desperate need to fill his lungs.

Every punch hurt. Every kick was felt deep in his core. The sound of flesh-on-flesh, of tissue bruising and bones aching.

But he could do it.

He could fight.

Natasha was right. This wasn’t his first time in combat, this wasn’t the first time he’d fought. It wasn’t just about muggers and street criminals. He had his fair share of fighting under his belt.

Not just dodging, not avoiding every attack that came his way. He was skilled at this; if there was one thing Peter was confident in, it was just that.

He knew he could fight.

He knew it.

Spider-senses and fast reflexes granted him the upper hand against most of her assaults, but Natasha was undoubtedly more experienced. Laughably more experienced. Each assault she threw his way had static coursing through him, numbing his fingertips down into his toes.

Peter couldn’t catch his breath. It was too fast, their movements were too fast.

His knuckles screamed for reprieve, split skin underneath his jaw aching from where her nails caught his chin. How she wasn’t at her breaking point yet blew his mind.

Hearing was long gone, the praise and words of encouragement from the bleachers muted underneath the heavy pounding of his own pulse. Blood rushed through his ears, a broken damn deafening him to anything but his own heartbeat.

A brutal kick to his knee had him yelping. A sudden twist of Natasha’s arm had her cursing.

For once, his attacks weren’t sloppy. They weren’t panicked, they weren’t desperate. Each hit was precise, beyond his restraint, beyond his thinking.

It was seamless. Robotic.

Like he wasn’t in control.

Peter couldn’t think of anything. Just one word. A mantra, an occluded chorus repeating in his head.

Fight.

Fight.

_Ǩ̴̛̼̯̜͒̇̀͂̓̓̊́̋̋͌̉̐̈́̕̚̚͝Ị̸̧̲̖͉̜̹͈̳͈̘͙̝̝͕͔͎̊̈̽̂͋̃͐̐̌̑̕L̵͎̤̜̫̮̗͍̰͉̍͋̊̿̌͛͌͂̆͋̽͝L̴̨̛̛̖̰̖̥̩͈̼͎͕͖͓̝͇͖̞͚̫̐̌̈́̓́̇͊̽̇̑͛̕͝ͅ_

Fight.

_Ǩ̴̛̼̯̜͒̇̀͂̓̓̊́̋̋͌̉̐̈́̕̚̚͝Ị̸̧̲̖͉̜̹͈̳͈̘͙̝̝͕͔͎̊̈̽̂͋̃͐̐̌̑̕L̵͎̤̜̫̮̗͍̰͉̍͋̊̿̌͛͌͂̆͋̽͝L̴̨̛̛̖̰̖̥̩͈̼͎͕͖͓̝͇͖̞͚̫̐̌̈́̓́̇͊̽̇̑͛̕͝ͅ_

Fight.

_K̵̢͇̳̠͇̖͇̜͆̑̒͆͂̊͠I̸̢̗̭̘͚̼͓͈̩̙̰͓̖̩̭̪͋̃͑̌̐͌͜L̶͍̰̰̋͛̐͋̓͋̑̆̈ͅĻ̴̺͍͕̺̲̂̈́͋_

“Hey — HEY!”

_Ķ̩̤͖̣̥̺͍̘͔͍̯ͅḬ̡̧̢̢̬͍̼̝̟̻͈͔̱̯̦̟͢L̨̦̻͕̻͇̣̞L̢̢̢̹͇͈̜̜̞̬̜̳͟͜_

“What the hell — whoa, whoa —!”

_Ķ̩̤͖̣̥̺͍̘͔͍̯ͅḬ̡̧̢̢̬͍̼̝̟̻͈͔̱̯̦̟͢L̨̦̻͕̻͇̣̞L̢̢̢̹͇͈̜̜̞̬̜̳͟͜_

“Parker!”

“Somebody get Bruce out of here, quick!”

_Ķ̩̤͖̣̥̺͍̘͔͍̯ͅḬ̡̧̢̢̬͍̼̝̟̻͈͔̱̯̦̟͢L̨̦̻͕̻͇̣̞L̢̢̢̹͇͈̜̜̞̬̜̳͟͜_

“Holy shit!”

“Peter, get the hell off —!”

Two hands clawed at the back of his shirt, yanking him away, ripping him from the captive control of belligerent chaos.

It was like a bad dream, seeing both his hands wrapped around Natasha’s throat.

Peter was tossed across the gym before he could realize what he was doing. Before he could see with clear eyes that those hands belonged to him, that the pressure in his grip seeped from his very muscles. His fingers were still tingling as he skidded across the gym, the skin of his elbows rubbing painfully against the floor.

Steve had thrown him like he would his shield, with such force that Peter didn’t come to a stop until his back hit squarely against the wall.

The _THUNK _that resounded was enough to snap him back into the moment.

Peter never remembered leaving it.

“Tony, get Bruce out of here, now!” Steve was shouting, Peter could hear him.

A quick glance to the bleachers and he saw a spread of green creeping up along Doctor Banner’s neck, a sight that convulsed every muscle in his body with a fear strong enough he could throw up.

Tony was frantically trying to pull him away, guide him to the exit.

Steve was still yelling — loudly, in ways he’d never heard before.

And somebody was coughing.

His hearing was fuzzy, muted, like cotton balls stuffed into his brain. He could hear coughing — who was coughing?

Peter blinked, over and over. The black, mucky clouds covering his eyes were like smoke of ether, blinding him, stealing away from him every second he couldn’t see. Only with time did colors morph into objects, into forms, into tangible things.

Until finally, he saw the crisp, clear image of people.

Steve sat on his knees, hands placed gently on Natasha’s back.

“Deep breaths, Nat. Deep breaths...”

His heart skipped a beat at each wheeze that exhausted Natasha’s lungs, her raspy coughing a panic that marinated through him.

Peter’s eyes darted back and forth, unable to purge the sight of reality.

He did the only thing he could think of doing.

Peter scrambled to his feet and ran.

“Parker, get back here!” Steve thundered, voice booming through the gym. “Hey! That’s an order, son!”

Suddenly, his feet weren’t a thought he had to give, the panicked notion of where to go a contemplation far beyond where his mind was at.

He was dead.

He was so, so, _so _dead.

Peter’s entire body pushed against the door to the locker room, throwing it open like it weighed nothing. The impact smacked it to the nearest wall in a way that startled even himself.

Drywall came crumbling down, scattering to dust onto the clean, bathroom floor. He didn’t give it a second glance.

“Shit!”

No tricks this time, no hostage kidnapping, no deceit — Peter knew he was done for, as dead as they came, the only person in history to sign his own death warrant while still breathing.

“I can’t believe this is happening right now,” his voice echoed in the locker room, his feet scurrying with nowhere to go. “What did I do, what did I….shit!”

Peter paced the bench that sat in the middle of an array of metal lockers, circling it like a madman. His hands dug so deep into his hair that his nails began to scratch at his skull. “Oh shit, oh no, no no no no —!”

The _SMACK _of his palm whacked his forehead, hard. Again, and again, until he could see bright stars sparking like flares underneath his clenched eyelids.

He could still hear shouting from the gym. Angry yelling, no doubt all of it towards him.

On a scale of one to ten — ten being that he absolutely, positively, in no way on his life, on his parents grave, on his Uncle’s grave did he think through _any _of what just happened — Peter was beyond ten. Ten thousand, ten hundred million, ten billion trillion —

“What the hell,” he hissed, biting at his bottom lip, his breath shaky and his words hushed in a panic.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

That _so _wasn’t supposed to happen.

What the hell happened!?

Slowly, Peter opened his eyes, one at a time, staring at his hand in disbelief. “What the hell, Parker. What the fu—”

The locker room door was thrown open with a force that could have been a repulsor beam.

Tony closed in on him before Peter could even register that he was there.

“What the fu—!”

“I know what you’re going to say!” Peter whipped around, dizzily fast, his hands in the air and trembling beyond his control.

“Zip it!” Tony shouted.

Peter swallowed.

There wasn’t one ounce of Tony that didn’t radiate anger, a rage so fierce it sent shivers through Peter’s spine. The veins around his neck were prominent, bulging out almost as hard as his eyes. His skin was flushed so red it gave his Iron Man armor a run for its money.

No matter how hard Peter wanted to, there was no pulling away from Tony’s eyes. They locked on beyond his control. It was paralyzing, stripping his muscles of what ability they once contained.

To say _‘he fucked up’ _would be the understatement of the year.

Suddenly, and with very little thought, Peter gestured a finger towards the door they both came through.

“She told me to do it!” he defended, the crack in his voice and quiver in his lip a break on his veneer of confidence. “She said she could handle it!”

“Like hell she can!” Tony roared, storming forward. “She’s not enhanced — you are!”

Each step he took had Peter taking two steps back, until finally his back hit the lockers with a _thud._

Peter shook his head, frantically. “She told me not to pull my punches —”

“That doesn’t mean you goddamn choke her!”

“Steve said not to—”

“SHUT IT!” Tony surged ahead, pushing through any personal space between them. “This is where the adult talks!”

There was no getting any closer. Tony practically had him pinned to the locker, so close Peter could see every gray hair hiding in his goatee – the gray hairs he’d jokingly say Peter caused.

Peter believed that now.

There were very few times he’d had seen him so angry. This wasn’t even anger – no, anger was the Ferry, anger was Flash’s party. This was a raw fury, scorching so deep it left every inch of him burning and sweltering from the heat.

This was bad.

This was _beyond _bad.

What the hell did he do?

Peter’s eyes flittered back and forth, panicked, unable to look at anything for too long.

Why the hell did he do that?

_Y̳͖̰̖͋̈́͆ͮͥou ̟͔ͪ̆̌̾ͭp͍̈͊̐ͣrot͉͍̅̃̊͑̑ͫͅect͔͖̟ͧ̇͂̂ẽ͙́ͮͅd y͇̳̱̪͋ͯ̅ͦ̚our͉̱̊ͥͬͧṡ͈̬̄ͭ̓elf̣̱͚͒ͧ̇̉ͣ̚_

No, no, that didn’t make any sense. That didn’t —

“You trying to prove a point out there?”

Tony’s coarse voice startled him, like hot coal thrown against his skin.

Peter choked on his next breath, stuttering for a response.

“I wasn’t—”

“You think upping your game a notch will impress them?” he went on, a perpetual ranting that failed to find an end. “You wanna be one of the big boys, a tough guy? You wanna go a few rounds with SHIELD’S black and blues next? Let’s see how easy it is for you to choke-out one of Fury’s trained lackeys. We’ll get them in here right now, they’d love to show you a lesson or two on dirty fighting. Fair warning, they won’t go easy on you like she did.”

The lump in Peter’s throat grew larger, tighter. If he didn’t know better, it was constricting his ability to breathe, every shaky inhale a wheeze that barely got passage into his lungs.

Tony slammed a hand against the locker he stood against.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Peter’s brain shuddered to a halt.

For a brief moment, he clenched his eyes shut. There was no hiding his shock, like electricity coiling deep through his bones. Vibrations rippled up his back, all from a sudden hand banging squarely against the metal of a gym locker.

Tony had never yelled at him like this before.

To be fair, he’d never given him a reason to yell like this either.

Peter flickered his eyes open, blinking rapidly. Tony’s glare was as hot as the tears that began to burn in his eyes.

“I didn’t...” his words were stolen by the swell in his chest, growing so painful he couldn’t swallow it away. With desperation, he pushed past Tony, brushing against his shoulder in a frenzied need to get away. “Mr. Stark, I swear—”

Tony spun around before Peter take even a step.

“Park your ass on that bench!”

Peter didn’t chance doing anything but.

“Yes, sir,” he forced out, sitting down so fast it made him lightheaded.

The simple act of getting off his feet had the room spinning in places that it surely wasn’t supposed to, lockers titling at the edges and the tiles on the wall blurred where he had lost focus in his eyes. The inertia was enough to boil nausea in his stomach.

The one thing that stood against everything was Mr. Stark, looming over him with an expression Peter was sure he had never seen in his entire life. Anger? Disappointment? Outrage? Horror?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Peter bowed his head, averting his eyes to the floor instead.

“You’ve had a stick up your ass for weeks now, kid,” Tony waved his hand angrily. “Your attitude has been _shit. _Here I was passing it off as whatever flood of hormones you teenagers deal with, turning you into little brat-monsters that scream about acne and curfews and whatever other goddamn nonsense that you feel is apocalyptic to your social life. But then you go and punch someone’s lights out — a classmate, of all goddamn people! One I continued to ask you about —”

“Who told you about that?” Peter shot his head up so fast, the water that pooled in his eyes nearly evaporated.

Tony looked at him, eyes ablaze but mouth shut.

The realization of what Peter heard felt like a scolding knife sliced through his windpipe, driving a sound from his throat that not even he recognized.

May had promised that she wasn’t going to tell him.

May had broken her promise.

Peter’s forehead creased as he felt his jaw lock tensely, teeth grinding in ways that hurt his head.

She had _promised. _

“It doesn’t matter who told me,” Tony argued, defended — deflected. Peter’s hands clenched tightly into fists the longer he looked at him, practically lying straight to his face. “What matters is I _know. _And that’s just another important piece to this puzzle I like to call _Peter Parker’s Pissy _—”

“Why do you know?” Peter interrupted, a bite in his tone that sounded foreign to them both.

Tony gaped, his eyes narrowing until they were mere slits. “Because!"

“No,” Peter was quick to throw back. “No! That’s not fair!”

“_Life _isn’t fair, Peter!” Tony matched his volume and then-some.

“But you don’t have to know that! You didn’t have to know about that fight — it was nothing, it didn’t mean anything and you didn’t have to know about it!” Peter raised his voice, feeling his throat dry up as he heard his words fracture at the sheer stress of it all.

“Tough shit!” Tony snapped. “I know all about it! I _get _to know all about it!”

“Why!?” Peter shot up from the bench, his arms gesturing wildly. “Why do you get to know, why do you have to know everything!?”

“Watch yourself, Parker,” Tony quietly warned, more intimidating than menacing and yet somehow still both to Peter.

Peter shook his head, disbelief blooming over him and swinging his world sickeningly sideways. Tony’s voice was the loudest between the two of them, always had been, a lion’s roar screeching over a mouse. Peter hated it. He hated how he couldn’t be heard, how he wouldn’t be heard, how no matter how many times he spoke nobody ever _listened_.

“I don’t need you knowing every single thing about my life! I don’t need you hovering behind me and constantly checking in, or spying on me, or whatever it is that you do!”

“I beg to differ,” Tony scoffed. “And I believe the last few weeks are on my side with that. If you really think —”

“You’re not my dad!” Peter blurted out. “You’re not! So will you stop acting like it!”

The finality of his words didn’t escape his head like they did his mouth. They stayed there, a thought he didn’t feel was his, a feeling he didn’t own. He had no concept of even speaking, not until the words echoed in the room and bounced off lockers like thunder.

Only then did Peter realize what he had said.

And that there was no immediate come back to it.

For once, he kinda wished there was.

Instead of yelling, shouting or giving some smart-ass response, Tony stayed quiet. He stood tall, straightening his back as his lips pursed tightly.

Peter wanted desperately to take it back – _‘I didn’t mean it’ _somehow refusing to leave his lips. It didn’t matter. It had already latched onto Tony, holding him in place.

Peter could tell.

Tony nodded, and did nothing else but that.

“Right. Of course,” he gritted his teeth, noticeably, loudly. “Best to leave you unsupervised so you can go assault more of my team, no?”

Peter stammered to speak, his chest stuttering as he opened his mouth.

“You wanna give Cap a good strangle next?” Tony beat him to it, voice trampling over his like a bulldozer. “How about Bruce, I’m sure the big guy will love that —”

“It was an ACCIDENT!” Peter’s scream shattered them, an eroded static finally reaching its peak.

“Things like that are _not _accidents!” Tony roared. “You do not wrap your hands around somebody’s throat and —”

“I said it was an accident, okay!?” Peter fought to breathe each after shout, the air turning increasingly thin, each pull of oxygen diluting in ways that made his head spin. “What more do you want me to say!? I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry — how many times do I have to say that I’m sorry!?”

There was something stifling about Tony’s silence. Unnerving. Like Peter had angered the bear, poked him one time too many. It was more difficult to look him in the eye as he stayed close to his thoughts, muted, his lips pulled into a thin line with no words drawing close to an exit.

Peter couldn’t stand how fast his heart was beating, pummeling, thrashing in his rib cage. Somehow, Tony’s silence was worse than his shouting.

And then he shook his head, sharply yet barely, minuscule enough that it could have been a twitch in his neck.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

Peter didn’t hear the self-deprecating sound that came deep from his throat. All he could feel was his stomach, sinking so far down with disbelief that it sent pain through his legs and toes.

It didn’t matter.

None of this mattered, there was nothing he could do. They could fight all day long, they could argue about everything twice over and Tony would still come out on top. So long as he was underage — a _kid _— his voice was just an illusion.

Nothing he said would ever be heard.

“What are you going to do?” Peter threw his hands into the air, exasperated, defeated. “Ground me again? Because —”

“You’re benched,” Tony firmly stated. “The Avengers, Spider-man...all of it. Indefinitely.”

Peter’s eyes widened, his breath lost as he felt strangled on a paralyzed inhale.

“That’s not —” He nearly tripped on nothing, suddenly desperate to break the barrier of distance between them. “No!”

“Yes,” Tony curtly threw back, no hesitance, holding a tall and firm stance.

Peter freaked, his hands grabbing a fist full of hair until his eyes burned lava hot liquid.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was his fault.

_N͊̆ot͎ͨ͊̾͐ y͇ͩ̍̔͆̆ou̠̒ͭ̚r ̃f͂̓aũ̘͋̈́̚lt̞͇̥̞͗́_

Peter choked as he tried to beg, his voice turbulent at the core. “Mr. Stark, please —”

“There’s no bargaining, there’s no decision making process here,” Tony coldly sneered. “Get your shit, get out. You’re leaving.”

Peter could feel his breath speed up, his chest expanding like a balloon that was about to burst.

He made a huge mistake. A huge, stupid mistake. He screwed up.

_N͒o ̲͑yǒ̮ͥu ̞͍̿͊di̜̬͐̀͛dn̬̭̊͐ͧͣ'ṭ̔̊̾ͫ̚_

“I swear, Mr. Stark, I didn’t mean to —” Peter felt his head spin in a whirlwind, everything around him disoriented, his senses screaming at him. “I didn’t know I —”

“_Now, _Peter,” Tony’s voice faded a little, unparalleled to the razor-deep seething that surged from him. “We’ll discuss _if _you can return later.”

Peter couldn’t swallow past the golf-ball-size lump that invaded his throat, he couldn’t get a handle on his breathing long enough to feel like he wasn’t hyperventilating.

He was freaking out.

This couldn’t be happening, this absolutely could not be happening. This was everything he wanted — this was everything he dreamed of.

And it was gone. Because of him.

Why did he do that!?

_Y͍͞ ̡̘̹̼̌̒̾͒o̡̤̖͊̀͞ ͔̝̘̲̪̉͌̎̉͌ů͇̥̻͇̋̾̊̂͢ ͍̥͈͊̀͞ ͚̮̆̐ṗ̬ ̧̫̤̮̯̪̠̿͑̽̀͗̉͡r̩̣̖̒͊̋ ̪͝ǫ̭̱̋͌͆ ̡̮͕̟̲̓̽͐̓t̡̖̖͐̑̈́ ̧̛͓͎͖̜̰̯̋̏̍̾̚e̡̻͔̒̈́͋͗͟͜ ͔̱͔̦̬̹̾̋͑̀̚͝c̨̢̳̭̃͛̑̐͑͟ ̠̼̎͡ţ͙̮͍͎̓̾̇̌͘͜͡ ̫̫̟̥̽̉͆̕͢͞ê̟͍̙̹̲̋̈̃̊ ̢̱͔͖̱̎̄̀̊͠d͓̰̀͝ ̭̺̻̆̚͞ ̧̹̊̆͜͞Ũ̘̎͜Ş̞̰̻͍̠̃̀͒̏̀͟͝͞_

“Ga-AH!”

A feral noise tore through his teeth, a vicious animal clawing out of his throat.

Peter heard the metal crunching underneath his fist before he felt it. The sting from shards of metal slicing across the skin of his knuckles barely crossed his mind.

He never looked at the hole he left in the locker. A dent caved so inward that it the door itself had collapsed in, mangled and broken.

Peter had stormed out before Tony could process what had just happened.

* * *

To no surprise of Tony’s, everyone was still occupying the gym by the time he had mustered the willpower to leave the locker room.

Everyone but Peter, that was.

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes, less than eight – easily. Why it felt like a lifetime, that was beyond his comprehension. A part of him idly wondered if he needed the time to steer off his own emerging anxiety, ascending so close to the surface he could feel it on his skin.

Tony stuffed that deep down and far away for another time. He had other shit to deal with first.

The door to the locker room swung behind him, in and out in a way that sent a cool breeze up the back of his blazer. Tony wasn’t half-way to the bleachers when he noticed a disheveled Bruce jogging towards him, moving at a speed that didn’t seem normal for the scientist.

“Did you hit him?” Bruce asked, so suddenly that Tony didn’t catch it at first.

“Huh?” He furrowed his brows, confused. “Who, the kid?”

Bruce eyed him over first, looking to be an odd mixture of concerned and pissed. The latter wasn’t a comfort to Tony, especially considering the scare of brewing green that nearly tore the compound into eight different pieces.

For what it was worth, Bruce seemed to have gotten a handle on himself. Just enough to spit out, “He ran out of here with his nose bleeding like a faucet. Tell me you didn’t —”

“No!” Tony didn’t let him finish. Insulted didn’t even come close to the cards of emotions that doused through him. “Of course I didn’t! Why would I hit — I didn’t lay a hand on him!”

_Jesus, _did they really think he was that bad? Hard on the kid, sure, but never in a million years would he stoop to that level. To even think of it created a wave of sickness that quickly surged into his throat.

God, he needed a drink.

Bruce seemed to catch on quickly to his turmoil, a softness returning to his voice as he spoke.

“Alright, that’s fair. It’s just...you two were screaming like hyenas in there,” Bruce explained, shooting a brief glance behind him before continuing. “Pete came out and...front of his shirt was soaked, his face was red. He wouldn’t stop to let me take a look —”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tony quickly plowed over him, his words catching Bruce off guard. “He’s out of this, all of it. The nose crap — probably allergies or some nonsense. He gets to come back once he coat checks his attitude at the front door Until then, the school nurse can tend to him for all I care.”

Tony ignored the bewildered look from Bruce, brushing past him as he quickened his pace towards the bleachers. He was being honest with himself; it didn’t matter, not right now. Not when he had a mountain of problems to deal. One that felt large enough to avalanche on-top of him.

His feet came to a stop as he barely caught a glimpse of Natasha, sitting silently on the bottom bleacher.

One thing at a time, and she was definitely first.

Most of her couldn’t be seen, covered by Steve’s figure, the man standing protectively in front of her like a guard. Her head rested low between her knees, red hair hiding her face from view. And while she didn’t give even the briefest of glances his way, Steve did, a glare so cold it might as well be the ice he was frozen in.

Shit. Just what he needed.

“Romanoff!” Tony called out, a deep breath barely putting a lid on the rising anxiety attack that threatened to laugh at his _‘__126 days since a complete, total meltdown’ _count.

Natasha didn’t bring her head up, preoccupied nursing the water bottle gripped in both her hands.

Steve blocked her before Tony could get any closer, holding out both his hands placaintingly.

“Tony —”

“You can lecture me all you want in a second, boy scout,” Tony barely held in a huff when Steve wouldn’t let him any closer to Natasha. Barely. “Alright, fine. Here it goes,” he turned his focus to Natasha, who still made little effort to acknowledge him. “On behalf of one reckless, irresponsible, in _way_ over-his-head teenager with an attitude as sour as spoiled fruit, let me say sor—”

“Hold on, Tony —” Steve tried again, growing more stern the second time around.

“Will you wait your turn, Capsicle.” Tony cut him short, his agitation only getting worse as the dark bruising around Natasha’s neck became more obvious.

This was _not _how he expected his day to go.

“I don’t know what kung-fu, martial arts, military mumbo jumbo you’ve been trying to teach that kid, but I have no doubt that this little stunt he pulled was one-hundred percent on him. Not you.” Tony kept trying to side-step Steve, irritated as he failed to get a closer look at Natasha. “Whatever shit show just happened here, I can assure you it will never —”

“Stark!” Steve’s shout echoed the gym, startling even Bruce across the way. “Shut your mouth for one damn second —”

“What the hell!” Tony yelled right back. “Back off, Rogers! I’m trying to give a sincere, genuine apology here! What in God’s name is so important that you —”

Steve grabbed Tony’s forearm, a grip so tight that it startled Tony right out of his indigence. He shot a look down at Steve’s hand, then back up where the soldier stood, the blue eyes staring back at him suddenly softening.

“Listen to her.”

Steve took one step to the side, freeing Natasha from his cover.

Tony furrowed his brows, eyes bouncing between the two with cautious curiosity. He almost didn’t notice as Bruce came standing next to him, his arms wrapped closely around his body, his expression just as curious.

Natasha looked up, her hair no longer an ensconce to her face, her water bottle crinkling under the pressure of her hands.

There was a painful pause that followed. Every dry, harsh and gravelly sound that parted Natasha’s lips was enough to make Tony wish he _had _given Peter a good slap across the head.

So what he heard next didn’t fully compute in his already overly-fried brain.

“That wasn’t Peter.”

Her rasp was quiet, brittle and thick. But loud enough that they could hear.

Tony held onto her gaze, hoping that if he blinked enough times, he’d have understood what she said.

“Come again?” he finally managed.

Natasha took a sip of her water, her eyes never once leaving his.

“It wasn’t him,” she insisted, her voice stronger this time around. Confident and unwavering.

Tony could feel his eyelid twitching, the stress of it all finally reaching its breaking point. He looked to Bruce first, the man seemingly as lost as him. A quick glance to Steve showed little to nothing, the man still having the same stone-cold expression as when he tossed Peter across the gym like a basketball.

Tony shook his head free of the cobwebs. “Somebody take her to the medbay. Now.”

Before Bruce could even offer her a hand up, Natasha was shooing them all away.

“No — no!” She sat up straighter, pushing off Steve before he could take her arm. “Listen —”

“Oh, I’m listening, alright,” Tony tossed in, gesturing aimlessly in her direction. “And it sounds like you were deprived of oxygen a little too long for your noggin to —”

“I’ve had worse,” Natasha coldly stated. “Trust me.”

Bruce hummed lowly. “That I somehow believe.”

Natasha coughed hoarsely, breaking her stare with Tony only to shove a fist against her mouth and wrench up air through her frazzled lungs.

Tony ducked his head and looked away. Worse or not, her windpipe had seen much better days. Knowing the hands that did the deed belonged to Peter — it was enough to send him on a rampage.

What the hell. Of all stupid things the kid had done, this one took the cake.

“As much as I would love to believe that what we all saw was some sort of...clone, or doppelganger, or figment of our imaginations...I regret to inform you that _was _Peter. It _was _one daring little asswipe of a teenager who got the upper hand on you and decided to mimic a movie too far.” Tony bit back a sigh, the heaviness in his lungs nothing compared to that in his chest. “We were here. We saw it. And while I’m sure we all wish we could forget it...that’s what happened.”

“Tony...” Natasha shook her head, a hard swallow followed with a contorted grimace. “Listen to me. One second...he couldn’t dare the thought of punching me. He begged me to hit him first so he could feel okay about it. Then...”

There were few things Tony could say he knew about Natasha. Of all his team, she had kept herself the most recluse, private from everyone else. There were the dossiers, sure. There were the small things here and there that he had caught onto, built a personality through tough exterior she held onto. At the end of the day, of all his team, he knew her the least.

But the one thing he _did _know, loud and clear, cut and dry — was how little emotion she let show on her face. A born spy, never to let a flicker of her feelings show in any physical proclamation.

So to see a flash of horror consume her every feature was enough to shake him to the core.

“His eyes,” Natasha said, a warble in his voice fracturing her fortitude. “They turned black.”

Tony stared at her, unable to look away, unable to examine the other two men even as they exchanged concerned and perplexed glances that held more doubt than belief.

There was something on her face, in her eyes that said more than her words ever could.

Fear.

Anxious was a look Tony wore, a coat hidden deep in his closet that liked to come out at the worst of times. It was something that he’d seen in Bruce often, for reasons that never needed stated. Clint, Sam, hell even America himself had all shown moments of weakness where distress and panic led their path in ways they weren’t proud of.

Not Natasha.

Tony titled his head to the side, wondering for a brief moment if he was finally going crazy or if this was something much, much bigger than him.

“Nat,” Steve spoke up, quietly, his tone troubled. “He had you in that choke-hold for a good —”

“Black, Steve,” Natasha reiterated, a fierceness returning to her poise. “Pitch black.”

Despite the duress her vocal cords had gone through, her voice was still loud enough to echo in the large gymnasium. Enough that after a pause, the words circled back to them, hitting harder the second time around.

Tony stared on, long past examining Natasha’s unnerving fear. His eyes seemed to drift off elsewhere, lost somewhere far away with his mind.

Only once Natasha spoke again did reality come crashing down on him, harder than a mountain’s avalanche ever could.

“Something’s wrong with Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scream at me in the comments.


	12. Suspicion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize. This is NOT how I wanted this chapter to go. It's legit not what I planned to update at all 😅 When I say I’m being held hostage by this story, I really mean it. If anyone knows any good hostage negotiators, please hit me up before I develop Stockholm syndrome. 
> 
> Who am I kidding. This story has gone on so long, I'm neck deep in Stockholm syndrome.
> 
> This chapter WAS originally planned to lead into something really whumpy with Peter and Tony. But my word count was teetering close to 20k words and I get panicky when I cross the 10k word threshold. What can I say, I just can't STFU. 😆 So, ultimately, I had to split the chapter into two. I know you guys are eagerly waiting some kind of good conflict between Tony and Peter, especially after all that just happened. It DOES happen, trust me. It's right around the corner. That, and so much more. 
> 
> On a side note and a brief heads up, the hidden text feature that AO3 offered was being way too glitchy for my liking. Too many readers couldn't see it, so ultimately I ditched it. If you haven’t seen what was there, it’s all visible now, going back as far as chapter 9.
> 
> Alright now, enough of that. I’m taking way too long with this story. You guys are being so friggin, fracking, incredibly amazing with your support and sticking along for the ride. Let’s get some updates in, shall we?

The night was quiet. Exactly how he liked it, yet somehow feeling wrong all the same.

Bucky looked down at the kitchen table, where two bowls sat filled to the rim with nauseating bright colors of sugar-packed cereal, each piece floating aimlessly in milk. He adjusted himself on the bar-stool, taking a spoon and stirring the contents around.

It was all mush, dissolved and soggy like wet newspaper. The kid had mentioned something about that. Tried saying it was why he ate so fast, as if Bucky could ever believe that. He knew a bottomless pit of a stomach when he saw one, scrawny boy or not. No different than Steve himself, even before the serum changed his life — and body.

Bucky frowned, grabbing his beer by the base and throwing his head back to take a swig. Disappointment greeted him at the feel of an empty bottle. He mindlessly shoved it aside, the glass clanking against three other discarded bottles at the table.

It was late — er, early, Bucky corrected himself, a brief glance to the clock reading single-digit numbers. He’d been down here longer than he thought. One more hour and the compound would be stirring awake; the soldiers he trained would be rising for early morning spars, and the off-the-wall scientists would be scampering through the halls in a rush to get to their labs. If they didn’t already spend the night there, that was.

With an odd feeling settling in his chest, Bucky realized that the kid wasn’t coming down.

He picked up both bowls with his one and only arm, cradling the second bowl close to his chest as he made his way to the kitchen sink.

It was for the best. The junk food was crap anyway.

Still, as Bucky poured the saturated and spongy cereal down the sink, he couldn’t help but dwell on how odd it seemed. This was the first time the talkative little punk didn’t come barging in to interrupt his night of solitude. It had almost become routine for them, ever since he arrived at the compound. It was one of the few things he actually found himself enjoying. There was very little around to make him feel anything besides discontent in what seemed like imprisonment to a SHIELD facility he didn’t ask to live in.

He turned on the kitchen faucet and watched the liquid and mushy pieces swim down the drain. Bucky hummed to himself; he knew the kid was here. They saw each other last night, and one oddly spontaneous nose bleed aside, everything seemed fine. Maybe something was mentioned in one of his many senseless rambles about not being around today. It was hard to keep track of everything that was said, especially when the punk managed to talk five hundred words a minute.

Maybe he finally got some sleep.

It was only fair one of them managed it.

“Bucky?”

There was no need to turn around and see who the voice belonged to. With a sigh, Bucky shut off the kitchen faucet, head low and bangs hiding his eyes from view.

“It’s three in the morning.” Footsteps came closer to him, and Bucky could just barely see as Steve’s blond hair came into view. “Is everything alright? What are you doing up?”

The questions, are well-intended as they were, only felt like nails on a chalkboard to Bucky’s ears. He made an indistinguishable sound from his throat, turning his back on Steve to grab and discard his empty beer bottles.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he answered plainly.

Even in the barely-lit kitchen, Steve’s expression was visible from miles away. Concern etched deep into the contours of his face, his blue eyes somehow growing vivid despite the lack of light that illuminated the space between them.

“Still?” Steve asked, his voice soft and quiet, a far cry from the clatter of glass that Bucky dropped into the recycling bin.

He grunted, leaving it up to Steve to decide what exactly that meant.

Nearly a century apart had clearly done nothing to stop the wave link between them, and it was made evident as Bucky went to leave the kitchen, stopped by a firm yet gentle hand gripping his forearm.

“Buck…” Steve started, looking straight at him even as Bucky avoided his gaze. “I know you’re still mad at me. I can take that. It’s only fair after...after bringing you here when you didn’t want to come.”

Bucky kept his eyes locked ahead, content that his hair hid Steve’s face from even his peripheral vision. The man’s verbatim was too kind for the events that took place – Bucky wasn’t brought here, he was forced here. A deal that he had no part of uprooting him yet again, throwing him somewhere else right when he became comfortable with where he was.

Steve frowned, the cold shoulder directed his way impossible to ignore. “But...I can tell something’s going on. Something I can’t help you with. I want to see you better, and I’ll do whatever it takes for that to happen.”

Bucky pursed his lips and sniffed, saying nothing even as a pause built between them.

Steve slowly let go of his arm. “Do you still have the number for that thera—”

“I need to get ready for cadet training,” Bucky quickly sliced through Steve’s question before he could finish, an interruption so sharp it left a sting lingering in the air.

Steve said nothing as Bucky left, his footsteps heavy on the floors, carrying the baggage of emotion that was never vocalized.

All Steve could do was sigh, an exhale of frustration and concern heavy enough to rattle his shoulders with dismay. That, and he stared with confusion at the brightly colored box of breakfast cereal sitting abandoned in the middle of the kitchen table.

* * *

“Bite my ass, Stark.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, staring ahead with an upturn of his lip.

“So that’s a yes, then?”

His humor wasn’t reciprocated. A scoff echoed from the speakers of his computer screen, loud enough to break the low-tuned humming that sang a quiet song of white noise around him. The televideo conferencing was the only active thing in his workshop, everything else running on standby with most systems idling about.

“That’s a _‘you’re crazy if you think I’m that gullible.’ _Why in God’s name would I lend _you _of all people Pym Particles?” Hank’s hand waved and flapped around the monitor with little care of how it blocked his face, getting caught up in the undone tie that hung loosely around his neck.

“Because I asked nicely? Because I had the decency to admit that I respect your work and feel it would be a great addition to my latest innovation?” Tony leaned his elbow against the armrest of his chair. “Or how about because you’ll get a check from me with more numbers than you can count on one hand —”

“Screw your money!” Hank leaned forward, his face inching so close to the screen Tony swore he could see the man’s gray nostril hairs. Sometimes ultra high definition monitors weren’t always in his favor. “Some of us have principles and morals, unlike your family heritage. I don’t need your damn pity cash.”

Tony fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Jeeze Hank, getting cranky in your old age, don’t you think?”

“I’ve had a lifetime of things to be bitter about.” Hank folded his arms across his chest, making a face that looked straight at Tony’s, practically burning right through cameras that made the call possible.

“Amazing,” Tony drawled out. “I can feel your cold shoulder from across the country.”

Hank narrowed his eyes. On top of that, unless it was one of his creepy little ant bugs floating around, Tony could have sworn he heard him growl. Knowing the eccentric physicist, Tony didn’t rule out the possibility of those damn insects siding with his discontentment.

He bit back a sigh, locking his hands behind his head and stretching his arms behind his back. It was times like these Tony was wishful to have the diplomatic bargaining skills of those he knew in his business life. Sometimes his Stark Charm worked wonders, winning over everyone in his path.

Times like these, it was a nuclear bomb, his very namesake putting him at his disadvantage.

The wonders of things Howard left behind for him.

“Don’t you think it’s time that we bury the hatchet? Make amends?” Tony tried, gesturing an open palm at the screen. “Call it a day in the name of world peace?”

Hank’s lack of a response was answer enough.

This time, Tony did sigh. While he had anticipated contact with Hank to be difficult, reality proved to be double that of what challenge laid in store.

Nothing good ever came easy, right?

“Listen,” he started, adding a drop of empathy to his voice that was often reserved for his finer moments. “My father screwed you over. I get it. He screwed over a lot of people, including yours truly. I’m not him. I like to think I’ve proven that over the course of these past seven years.”

For a brief moment, Hank looked away. His finger repeatedly tapped on a crystal mountain glass that barely made it into frame, and if Tony had to guess, it wasn’t full of water. No judgments; to this day he missed the provocative taste of a good bourbon coursing down his throat.

The longer Hank hesitated on an answer, the more vexed Tony became. He knew full well what the man thought of him — _‘Never trust a Stark’ _something said directly to his face, even after rescuing his lackey from the confinement of a federal prison. But at the end of the day, he had truly hoped there was a chance to move on from petty animosity.

Tony managed to do that with Rogers. If they could do it, then hell, it could happen with anyone.

Hank adjusted his glasses before looking up at the screen. “And what, entail, do you plan to do with my particles?”

Tony’s mouth twisted into something of a smile.

“Micro-condensed narrowed ultrasonic pulse —”

“You want to create a sonic boom?” Hank butted in, derisively and with a hint of patronizing to his tone.

“No,” Tony curtly drew out. “I’ve already created a sonic boom. Multiple times. Through numerous techniques. The Stark Sonic Canon was quite popular during it’s run in military operations, and I even miniaturized it for the Mark II War Machine armor — I could write up a prototype for a sonic boom in my sleep. What I have now is specifically an ancillary device. Repulsor attachments to the Iron-man armor, a way to release high-frequency bursts of concentrated sound.”

Hank shook his head. “Why not just use an LRAD?”

“Long Range Acoustic Devices are only capable of reaching decibels up to one-fifty, with a sound range limited to two point five kilohertz,” Tony quickly rattled off.

“And let me take a wild guess,” Hank sighed, ripping off the loose tie from around his neck and tossing it to the side. “You want to go higher?

“Louder. Harder.” Tony looked him straight on, eyes locked to the glow of his screen. “With an ancillary device capable of propagating traveling longitudinal wave disturbances, the audio frequency range could transmute into something so loud that it breaks the very sound barrier. Capable of tearing machines down to their very last screw and bolt, shredding brick houses into dust. Why bring in ten LRAD’s when you can have one in the palm of your hand?”

Hank met his enthusiasm with a hum that stayed deep in his throat.

“Back in the weapons game, I see,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Sounds like you haven’t changed a day in your life, Stark.”

“Hank,” Tony stressed, growing frustrated. He dropped his hand down to the table, the smack echoing from the workshop unintentional yet appropriate. “Don’t play dumb. I _know_ that _you_ know that the only weapons I create are for the functions of the Iron Man suit. This would be attached to my armor and my armor only. Used only in the circumstances it’s called for, last effort assaults to stop someone who has managed to...oh, I don’t know, replicate your technology and try to sell it off to Hydra?”

Hank set his jaw. He leaned back in the rickety old chair he sat, a look on his face that read clearly unamused, but caught red-handed.

Tony resisted a smirk. Rhodey always did wonder why he kept himself so involved and informed on the _‘super-hero business’ _circling the world — if Hank’s Ant-Man could even be called such a thing. Times like these made him appreciative that he still consulted for SHIELD every once and a while. When he wanted to, of course.

Like a hobby, as he told Fury.

“You still haven’t explained why you need Pym Particles for all this,” Hank dryly said.

“The _micro _part of micro-condensed didn’t give it away?” Tony took a beat, forcing himself to unlace the condescension that tangled his tone. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Pym Particles would trap the sound wave into a narrowed assault. More like a beam as opposed to a blast. It would harm only that which it’s directed at. Nothing else...no one else.”

Hank nodded along, running his hand through his gray beard.

“Clever. By shrinking the molecules around the compressions and rarefactions of the decibel points, you prevent permanent hearing damage on innocent bystanders. Not to mention anatomical deterioration to extra-aural bioeffects. Pym Particles would theoretically do the condensing you speak of, shrinking the wave down into a high-pressured beam.”

With every ounce of strength he had, Tony kept his mouth shut as Hank contemplated, considering the idea with nothing more than a low hum to be heard.

“You still can’t have any.”

“Now you’re just being resentful!” Tony shot up in his chair, wagging a finger at the screen like it made a difference. “You know, if it weren’t for me, your Ant-boy would be in jail right now. Remember that? Remember how he decided to join in on a political debate that originally had nothing to do with him in the first place?”

“You did me no favors by sparing him, every day I wish the traitor was back in a prison cell.”

Tony threw his hands in the air, refusing to let himself scream a shout of frustration only because he knew how much pleasure Hank would get from it.

There was one thing Howard certainly didn’t lie to Tony about. Hank Pym was a stubborn bastard, and it seemed age only intensified that.

“What’s your vice? What do I need to offer you to —”

“Hank, you down here?”

A voice barely picked up on the camera, the distance it spoke only audible through Tony’s surround sound that covered every inch of his workshop.

Heavy footsteps followed, and almost immediately, Hank dropped his head, muttering a multitude of swear words under his breath.

“Hey, Hope is looking for the thingamajig that does the...I don’t know, the thing with the devil horns on it? You know where we put that —”

A figure popped into frame, a familiar face that Tony happily could have gone his entire life without ever seeing again.

“Holy crappadoodle!” Scott gaped, eagerly pointing to the computer screen. “Is that Tony Stark? _The _Tony Stark?”

Hank was too busy rubbing the bridge of his nose to answer, glasses pushed so far up they hit his hairline.

“No, I’m a screen-saver,” Tony’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he slowly returned to his chair. “Hank installed a realistic Stark Industries lock-screen because he just loves me so much.”

That earned a glare from Hank, heated enough to burn right through the computer screen. Tony waited until Scott pushed Hank’s chair aside before he let himself smirk, and made no attempts to hide it.

“Man, this is...wow, this is awesome. It’s great talking to you again!” Scott squeezed into frame, even as Hank repeatably slapped his arm away. “I haven’t heard from you since like, two summers ago. Remember that? Summer of ‘15? I was there, with you guys, remember? I was the big guy — or, I mean, I went really big anyways. I mean _really _big guy who —”

“I remember you, Lang,” Tony cut him off, wishing he had saved a few brain cells by interrupting earlier. The guy had an ability to run his mouth like he didn’t need oxygen, exactly the reason why Tony could have gone another two years without seeing him. “Now why don’t you run aside, mommy and daddy have some grown-up discussions to get through.”

Scott threw a look to Hank, his face brewing with brief confusion. His eyes went wide before Tony could stop his excited assumptions.

“Wait a second, is this some kind of...invitation thing?” Scott pushed himself closer to the monitor, every hair on his face practically visible on Tony’s monitor. “Do you need my help again? I’m free, if you do, my schedule is totally open. And I can even go _bigger _now —”

“No!” Tony quickly cut in, at the same time Hank all but shouted, “Absolutely not!”

Scott backed away from the screen, almost startled by the sudden bombard of voices directed his way.

“Oh. Okay then, well...” Despite his obvious disappointment, he gave an uptick of his lips. “I’m just a phone call away if you need extra support. Ant-man’s on your side!” Scott swayed slightly as Hank made one of many attempts to scoot his chair back where it belonged, knocking into Scott along the way. “It is just...one side now, right? Because I gotta be honest, the whole blue vs red thing was a bit much for me. You know, I come from a broken home and —”

“Tell you what,” Tony said, “I’ll keep your number in my Rolodex.”

Scott grinned ear-to-ear.

“Awesome! Looking forward to it! Just make sure you call me first, okay? Don’t call...” Scott pointed his head towards Hank, the movements so exaggerated that the unspoken might as well have been shouted from a rooftop. “Cause I’ll do things he won’t do. Things no one else will do. Naughty things —”

Hank shoved two hands against his side. “Shoo, get out!”

Scott laughed, but not before pushing himself back into frame. “Hold up, hold on!”

Tony sighed heavily, rubbing away an oncoming migraine with the tips of his fingers.

“But if I may...Tony?”

Scott’s abrupt change in tone was enough for Tony to peer up, one eye still closed as he massaged it with gentle force.

“In all seriousness...thanks, again.” Scott’s goofy smile dimmed down into something less bright and cheery, more sincere and soft as it coated his face. “For keeping the feds off my back after that whole...mishap. That could have gotten _real _ugly had you not stepped in. I can’t thank you enough. My daughter really appreciates it...having me here. Not being in jail again. You know...all that.”

A rush of familiarity washed straight through Tony, his head suddenly throbbing with a different type of ache. It wasn’t like hearing about Scott’s daughter was in any way new information to him. He was as well informed on that as he was Clint’s family — late to the game, but still knowledge he obtained.

And it wasn’t like he was a cold monster, after all. Helping Rogers free those in the Raft was about fixing everything, not just the broken bond between the two of them.

Tony dropped his hand from his eye, relishing in the feeling as the bone of his wrist smacked harshly against his work desk. The mention of offspring made it hard not to think about _other _kids. Specifically, those that stressed him out to the point of an early grave.

It was a thought he pushed aside so fast, it might as well have been on wheels.

“Anytime, Lang,” Tony finally managed, forcing a smile that didn’t meet his eyes.

Scott made what Tony was sure could only be labeled as _ ‘finger guns’ _at the screen.

“If you need anything—”

Tony perked up instantly. “Now that you mention it—”

“Will you get out of here!” Hank gave one final, hard shove at Scott, though Tony doubted it actually did much aside from encourage the guy to finally leave.

A wave goodbye and he was gone from the screen, footsteps leading up a staircase determining his departure for good.

Tony was smiling by the time Hank looked back at the screen.

“If I need anything...” he repeated.

“You’re full of shit,” Hank sneered.

Tony shrugged. “He said it.”

“He doesn’t speak for me.”

“Yet he makes valid points.”

Hank pursed his lips, so tightly that they hid well in the snowy color of his goatee. One eyebrow lifted high and he stared at Tony, unwavering, almost studious to the man on the other side of the screen.

Tony didn’t back down. He waited patiently — as patiently as he could, which might not have been saying a whole lot, seeing how his patience had taken a beating in recent years. His head cocked slightly to the side but otherwise he did nothing, not letting even the smallest peep come out of his lips.

The ball was in Hank’s park. Tony could only hope that he was willing to play.

“Conditions,” Hank started, finger pointing sharply in the air.

“Yes!” Tony clapped his hands together in excitement.

Hank huffed. “Hold your horses, Stark —”

“I’m listening,” Tony quickly tossed in, unable to wipe the smile off his face. “I’m listening. Go ahead.”

Hank flashed a stiff glare of exasperation, but continued. “There’s no profit off the invention, no selling it for commercial purposes. I get the blueprints of the design for my own recreation, with permission to further expand on the concept. And that check, as you stated, with more numbers than—”

“Fingers on one hand. You got it.” Tony beamed, riding a high of accomplishment that he hadn’t felt in months. Howard’s damage be damned, he could still brighten the future of tomorrow, even with those who had long since spat on the Stark name. “My people will be there to pick up the particles tonight.”

“With the check?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “I thought you had principles, Pym.”

“I do,” Hank coldly stated, lowering his guard only as he followed up with, “..and bills.”

“Tony!”

The shout of a feminine voice cut right through their conversation, louder than even Hank’s disruption had been earlier.

“And that would be my cue to wrap this up,” Tony said, knowing exactly who was interrupting this time. And he knew better than to waste even a second before they made their presence known. “Thanks again, Hank. I’ll consider the hatchet buried with this.”

Tony leaned forward slightly, his finger hovering on the key that would disconnect the call.

“Yeah yeah,” Hank ratted off, “you know —”

The conference call shut off before Hank could ever finish.

High-heels came pounding into the workshop, sharp and loud against the marble flooring.

“Tony, you’d better be in here!”

Tony spun his chair around, crossing one leg over the other with a sugary, smug smile.

“Yes, sweetie pie?”

Pepper stopped a few feet short of him, the speed of her haste causing a few strands of red hair to fall over her eyes. A normally pristine and perfect bun had come loose, and by the looks of her one hand latched onto her hip, Tony knew she was angry long before she spoke.

“Don’t you sweetie pie me.”

Her words were the validation of his assumption.

Tony paused, taking in her look before giving a quick, hard snap of his fingers.

“You get a hair cut? It looks good. The, uh...the thing you did. With your hair.”

Pepper didn’t respond. The lingering, heated scowl she directed straight at him was harsh enough to send ripples through his muscles, cramps building in his calves and forearms in ways only her anger could ever cause.

“You mad?” Tony cocked his head to the side. “You look mad.”

Finally, Pepper scoffed.

“Am I mad?” she repeated, disbelief soaking on her tongue.

Tony stood from his chair, both hands up in placation.

“Is it the caterers? We can post-pone another few months if the wedding is giving you problems —”

“The only thing giving me problems right now is you,” Pepper fired back, her pitch lowering like gravel. “Why is it every time you manage to get a handle on things, you find a way to monumentally screw things up? First I get an email from Happy, stating that his availability has cleared up on the account of he won’t be chauffeuring Peter to the compound anymore. On_ your_ orders.”

Tony dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“You know Happy. He’s a drama king, likes to make a big scene out of everything — I think he gets bored, needs the attention.” He plopped back down into his computer chair, looking far elsewhere as a beat slid in between his next words. “But yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Then I get in touch with May Parker.”

Tony shot her a look, eyebrows so high they could have hit the ceiling.

Pepper nodded smugly. “Oh, yeah. You don’t think I find the time to talk to these people? You don’t think I’m in contact with Steve, or Bruce, or Natasha?”

“In my defense...” Tony pointed a finger her way, stalling on a pause that seemed to last forever. “I did _ not _think you had the time to do any of that.”

Pepper crossed her arms, her eyes staring forward, hard-edged with no room for negotiation.

Tony knew her well — too well. There wouldn’t be able any wiggling his way out of this one.

“You going to hear out my side at all?” he asked flippantly, broadly gesturing to nothing.

“Give me one good reason why I should,” she tossed back.

Tony tapped a finger endlessly on the armrest of his chair, his lips growing tight as they pursed together with agitation.

“Because if you really did talk with Rogers and Romanoff, you’d know the full story of what happened,” Tony insisted, his tone frigid around the edges. “And you wouldn’t be here needing clarification on decisions that, quite frankly, I stand wholeheartedly behind.”

Pepper’s jaw unhinged. “You _ kicked Peter out. _”

And he had been doing so good at avoiding the whole thing – it – the topic he knew she was steaming with outage over. Granted, avoidance was always one of his best skill sets. Hung on display, sitting on a shelf somewhere in his tangled, messy mind.

Still, it had barely been over twenty-four hours since the whole ordeal occurred. In reality, perhaps his pride in avoidance was premature.

“See? Happy is dramatic, you shouldn’t listen to him.” Tony folded his arms over his chest, unintentionally mimicking Pepper’s stance. “Peter’s going to stay away from the compound _ for now. _Indefinitely.”

The _ taptaptap _of his shoe against the floor caught him off guard. Tony hadn’t realized his foot was anxiously bouncing until that moment, beating like a drum on the ground.

“Wise move, Tony,” Pepper scoffed, fixing him with a stern, disapproving look. “Instead of giving teenagers the consistency and support they thrive off of, you just throw them out the front door.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Now that’s harsh. He was escorted out where Happy drove him home in a cushy Rolls Royce. Not much of a sob story there.”

Pepper dropped her arms, the _ smack _of hands to her hips leaving a wrinkle in the crisp, polished business suit she wore.

“You’re unbelievable. More than that, you’re a hypocrite! He makes _one _mistake and he’s out?” She shook her head. “Wasn’t the whole reason to have Peter spend three weekends out of the month here so he could be taught the rights to his wrongs? Grow, be mentored, be trained and be taught? This is a _direct _quote from you, Tony, I can’t make these things up!”

Tony shrugged. “You’re just upset because you won’t be able to binge watch Netflix with the kid anymore. Don’t think I didn’t notice you were watching our shows with him.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” Pepper admonished. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Jury’s out.”

“Tony—”

“Yes, Pepper, I’m hearing myself!” Tony snapped, spinning to face her in his chair so fast, it left him reeling with dizziness. “And _ yes _ I know I said those things! But all those things go out the window the _ moment _ I lose control of that kid and can’t get it back! When he decides that all reason and responsibility can take a hike, and _ I _ have to be the one to make a call on whether or not I’m bringing in the goddamn Iron Man suit to stop him — it’s my worst fucking nightmare to use that armor against him and the possibility just became a very real thing! He’s _ stronger _and...”

Tony’s voice trailed off, failing him when he needed it most. Something hard and tight grabbed at his throat, and he hastily averted his eyes once the familiar sting began to simmer.

“And...and you weren’t there, Pep. You weren’t there.” Suddenly, Tony sounded tired. Painfully tired.

Pepper exhaled slowly, her movements matching speed. She approached the table closest to him with gentle footsteps, sitting down on the edge, quietly placing folded hands in the center of her lap.

Understanding bloomed over her eyes. “What happened?”

Tony caved on the urge to clear his throat, shaking his head along the way.

“It doesn’t matter. You know the story, I trust Rogers to tell it how it is.” He looked up at Pepper, amusement briefly crossing over his face. “God, listen to me. Who thought I’d ever be saying _that_?”

Pepper’s smile was weak and half-lipped, never meeting her eyes in the same way that his amusement never touched his.

“So Peter really...went overboard with this training, then?” she asked, so quietly the hum of machines managed to overtake her words.

Tony scrubbed a hand down his face, unable to nod despite it being the appropriate action to take.

“He choked her. Exactly how it sounds, no room for interpretation. One moment they were sparing and the next...” his voice grew thin, inundated in unguarded emotion only she ever got to see. “I don’t know. I don’t know, it happened so fast. He wasn’t listening to us — any of us, not when I was screaming at him…nothing. Romanoff couldn’t shake him off no matter what she did. Hell, even Rogers had to put in some effort when ripping the kid away. Don’t think I’ve seen the man break a sweat over something so small.”

The tips of his index and middle fingers pressed heavily onto his temple and yet did little to alleviate the growing pressure behind his eyes. Tony could feel his ears throbbing almost as much as his chest at the recollection of an afternoon he would be ecstatic to forget, shove in a deep, dark cave never to be thought of again.

If only it were that simple.

Pepper kept a trained gaze on him, slowly running her one hand over the other.

“And the eyes?”

Tony looked up suddenly, eyebrows arched high.

“You believe that?” he asked, incredulously.

Pepper made a face. “You mean to tell me that you don’t?”

Tony groaned, hiding the sound in the palm of his hand as he rubbed mercilessly at his goatee. And here he had been hoping that whole delusion was tossed out the window once logical, objective facts were brought into the discussion.

Of course not. Leave it to the Russian operative to cling onto the smallest inkling of a thread that existed. Plausible or not.

Tony couldn't wrap his head around it. On any other day, Natasha would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of what said, what she now stood so firm over. It was barely his luck that Bruce still held doubts, unable to back up her conviction with the most absurd of science he could cultivate.

“Pep…” Tony started, forcing himself to look up at her. “The woman had been deprived of oxygen for — Christ, nearly a minute. She wasn’t thinking straight, she wasn’t seeing clearly. I think the only eyes that were turning black were_ hers_ as she neared passing out.”

Pepper didn’t seem affected by his reasoning. “Steve seems to believe her.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I don’t think the virtuous Captain wants to admit that the next goody-two-shoes on his team went that far.”

Pepper arched an eyebrow. For a split second, her head twitched to the side, her expression flickering with something unreadable.

“I don’t think _you _want to admit that he went that far.”

Tony couldn’t hold her look, not this time. He turned away, drawing his attention anywhere else in the workshop — monitors that glowed dimly in idle mode, pieces and parts laid scattered about on benches — anywhere but straight ahead, where Pepper’s eyes locked on him, nonjudgmental but unwavering.

Damn.

She knew him well.

“There’s more to the story,” he quietly said, his words lacking the firmness to be anything more than hushed. “Things you don’t know...things _they _don’t know.”

Pepper didn’t speak, didn’t move. She didn’t do anything more than wait, patiently, with ears open for listening.

Tony ran his tongue across his teeth, expelling a sigh as forcefully as a punctured tire.

“Peter’s…” he paused, discomfort bringing forth every goosebump on the surface of his skin. “This isn’t all that new. For weeks now, the kid’s been showing signs of PTSD. Panic attacks, avoidance, bad attitudes..he’s...”

“A mini you after New York?”

Tony finally looked to Pepper, a ghost of a smirk barely crossing over his lips.

“Close to a carbon copy.”

Pepper gave a sad smile, acknowledging every unspoken word in a moment that held nothing but silence. She understood, more than anyone in his life possibly could. He didn’t need to be reminded of that, her presence simply was. A constant support, an anchor that kept him from diving in too deep.

All Tony wanted was to be that for Peter, in some way, in some capacity.

Like all things, he managed to screw that up too.

“I’ve been letting him hash it out however he needs to,” Tony explained, as if he was defending himself. “Giving him space, keeping a distance. Hoping he’d come to me when he finally felt ready.”

It was almost odd to say, like the words belonged to a different Tony from a different universe. It hadn’t even been a full month since the two of them returned from their road trip together. Thirty-days well spent, enjoyable, relaxing — absolutely no sign or indicator that something was wrong.

Thoughts ran rampant in Tony’s head, no less control than a bull let out of its cage. Was Peter hiding this from him all along? When did it all start? Why didn’t the kid feel comfortable talking about it with him?

Tony huffed to himself. He knew the answer to that one, loud and clear, no questions about it. Yesterday’s incident wasn’t exactly his proudest moment, all the way down to his team thinking he socked the kid in the nose. If _ he _were in Peter’s shoes, he wouldn’t dare talk to him again.

But all he could see were the bruises around Natasha’s neck. Hearing himself screaming for Peter to stop. The way Cap had to pull him off, using strength he reserved for bulldozers and helicopters.

“It’s different now,” he murmured._ “ _Baggage or not, if I give him any reason to think what he did was okay...then god knows how he’ll grow up. What he’ll do. Who he’ll become.”

In a way, it just wasn’t fair. He never asked to be someone others looked up to, he never asked to be their hero. He certainly never asked to guide another generation in his footsteps, making sure that every step of the way they found themselves better than he ever could have hoped to become.

Tony closed his eyes not a second before Pepper had leaned forward, resting a gentle hand across his forearm. He didn’t look up, not even as the scent of her perfume drifted close to him.

“You put so much pressure on yourself to shape Peter’s future,” she said, with such softness it hurt to hear.

Tony wearily lifted his head, eyes burning as he looked her straight-on.

“He almost didn’t have a future because of me.”

A memory of a moment in time they’d never soon forget swelled in both their chests, burrowing in every crevasse. It felt like yesterday they both sat in the same place, in a workshop torn apart by a tidal wave of premature grief, forced upon them.

Pepper didn’t waste time in standing up. Two steps and she was at Tony’s side, pulling his head gently into the tuck of her stomach.

“You, Tony… you are an amazing, brilliant, kindhearted albeit _incredibly_ frustrating man who has managed to do nothing but put everyone’s best interest over your own. Just being in Peter’s life is more than enough, and yet you constantly strive to go above and beyond for him. He is so lucky to have you. And you? You are especially lucky to have him.”

Pepper grabbed both his cheeks with her hands, using gentle force as she brought his head up to look at her.

Tony smiled, the kind of tight-lipped grin that pulled at his cheeks, highlighting the crows-feet around his eyes. Genuine, sincere. Stark poise tucked away. The look he shared with Pepper was all Tony, all undeniably true to himself.

She brushed a stray hair away from his eyes, smiling softy before she quietly said,

“And you gotta bring him back.”

Tony’s sigh was strong enough rattle his shoulders, quaking through every fragile crack in his core.

“I know.” He nodded, and nodded again, until his neck felt too heavy to carry his own head. “I know...I _know,_ and I plan to. I will. I’ve already got Cho on standby to check him out, investigate this whole...black eye nonsense everyone is so fixated on. Who knows, maybe the kid has a new power developing, maybe he’s legitimately growing eight eyes like an actual spider.”

Tony’s weak chuckle did little for Pepper, who barely twitched an upper lip. He stood from his chair, squeezing her hand briefly before taking a step away.

“He just…” Tony stared ahead at his monitors, inactive screens showing a reflection of his face. “He needs to stew in this a little while. Know what he did was wrong.”

“We both know Peter,” Pepper needlessly stated, her heels giving away the steps that brought her closer to Tony. “Punishment or no punishment, Peter definitely knows what he did was wrong.”

Tony almost wanted to laugh, a dry huff escaping his throat instead. The humor in the situation was bleak, more frustrating than amusing.

Pepper was right; Peter could step on a dogs tail and be making amends for the next week. This was the same boy who accidentally charged three-hundred dollars of extra data to his aunt’s cell phone plan and nearly had a stroke when he found out. It was only after spending the next two days promising that he’d make up for it with extra chores and a night job that Tony finally paid the bill off himself, just to get the kid to be quiet.

There was no doubt in his mind, with a heart of gold too big for his own chest, Peter knew full well he had gone too far.

Still...

“I just keep thinking...what if we hadn’t been there? Those two have had one-on-one sessions before. What if there was no one around that time?” Tony turned around to face Pepper, tucking his hands tightly into his armpits. “He choked someone, Pep. He could have seriously hurt her...or worse.”

A part of Tony had to wonder if this was more than just anger he felt. If he let himself think about it — _ truly _think about it, a privilege he didn’t often grant his already fracturable mind — he might even go as far to say he was nervous over the whole thing. Afraid of Peter. Not who he could become, not the future that could be fabricated. It was the very present that sent a chill down his spine.

He had never seen the kid so out of control before.

It opened a flood of possibilities he didn’t want to dare think about.

“Yeah...” Pepper nodded, tilting her head slightly to the side. “And when has that ever sounded like Peter to you?”

A fragment of every buried emotion Tony kept under lock and key began to rise to the surface, pressure building and cracking at his resilience and denial.

He didn’t grace the question with a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn it, Tony. You know you're behaving badly when even _I'm_ getting pissed off writing you. It doesn't even make me feel bad for the amount of guilt and stress you get to endure after this. Christ, man. Get your shit together. 
> 
> (next chapter: Tony gets his shit together)


	13. Into the Abyss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hematemesis: The vomiting of blood, which may have an appearance similar to coffee grounds
> 
> _cue NBC "The More You Know" music_

_Buzzzz._

_Buzzbuzzzzz._

_Buzzbuzzzbuzzz._

_Buzz._

_Buzzbuzzbuzzz _—

“...wha the…?” Peter scrunched his face into something tight, rolling onto his side with a groan louder than the noisy streets of Queens that could be heard through his bedroom walls.

With one hand and both eyes closed, he blindly reached out to stop the persistent vibrating clattering against his dresser. It was _ annoying, _going off every second, buzzing like a bee on steroids. Not to mention the sheer volume of how loud it was, piercing through his eardrums like a hot, scolding knife. His head ached something fierce, pounding ruthlessly from his hairline down into his neck.

It was official. He slept like shit last night.

Finally grabbing hold of his phone, Peter pressed his thumb hard on the mute button before he clumsily brought it into bed with him. In the process, his arm knocked down two plastic water bottles, a small desk fan that ran on high, and an old hard disk drive he found the other week in the dumpsters by Brooklyn.

There was no attempt made to clean up the clutter.

Peter flopped onto his back, wincing as even his bedsprings squeaked and rattled. The pull of sleep was tempting; he didn’t want to even open his eyes. An all-consuming urge to forget the day and call it a loss was every bit as overwhelming and enticing as it could get.

_Buzzbuzzzzz —_

“Oh my — ugh!”

So much for that.

One balled fist rubbed harshly at his eyes, wiping eye crust away until he saw dancing flares where there should only be darkness. A moment later and Peter peaked an eyelid open, testing the waters before doing the same on the other side.

His room was barely lit, dim, and shadowy without the use of artificial lamps. The soft glow of a fading sun was the only light seeping through his bedroom window.

It was still sunrise? Peter furrowed his brows. He didn’t remember going to sleep til late, long after Happy dropped him off and way past midnight. Sure, it wasn’t like he expected a good night’s rest, certainly not after what happened yesterday —

The thought stirred a sharp cramp in his stomach, his skin growing hot with a flush of sweat. The memory came bombarding back to him like a broken dam releasing floodwaters.

Yesterday.

_Shit. _

Peter shook the thought off. Still. Surely he should’ve gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep, regardless of what happened.

As his eyes came into focus, so did the yellow sticky note taped to the upper bunk of his bed, directly in his eye-line. Peter didn’t even bother reaching for it, reading it exactly where it had been placed.

_Sleep. You earned a day of laziness._

_Pizza money on the counter. Working a double at the shelter tonight. _

_Please don’t beat yourself up. I know you’re upset._

_We’ll talk later._

_Promise._

_Love love love LOVE you,_

_May_

Peter scanned the note, and then again, reading it until his groggy mind could comprehend what he was seeing and the words made sense.

Not a second later, and he tore it off from the bunk, crumbling it into a crinkled, messy ball.

Promise. Peter huffed, slowly sitting up on his bed until his back hit the wall with a _ thud. _ What good _ anyone’s _promises did these days.

He leaned his head back until it pressed flush against the drywall, gently, careful not to aggravate his already pre-imploding skull. One wrong move and he was afraid the bomb rattling near his brain would explode. Both hands pushed back his hair, greasy at the roots and in major need of a shower.

None of this would have happened if May had just kept her promise. Peter set his jaw; this was exactly why he didn’t want Mr. Stark to know about the fight with Flash, about every single detail in his life. It always caused trouble, it always blew up into something way bigger than it needed to be.

And now...

_Buzzbuzzzbuzzz._

Tears were burning in his eyes, and Peter blinked them away before they could shed, reaching for and unlocking his phone. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about anything.

What greeted him on the screen was harder to understand than May’s note, a confused haze setting over his vision and a fog stealing his clarity.

Forty-eight unread messages. Five missed calls. The alerts were fresh and waiting to be touched.

It wasn’t the thing that surprised Peter the most.

“It’s seven at _night_?”

A quick glance at his bedroom window proved his phone correct. It wasn’t sunrise, not even close. The sun was setting and the day was coming to a close.

He had slept for sixteen straight hours.

“What the hell…”

Peter scratched at his head, barely taking the time to swipe through his messages. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept that long. Not straight through, anyway. Heck, he didn’t even remember getting up to use the bathroom. One moment he fell asleep and the next — well, here he was.

He didn’t even feel well-rested.

Screw that, he felt like utter _ crap. _

Sixteen hours? Why the hell did he sleep for sixteen hours?

Slowly, and without much paying much attention, Peter’s thumb browsed through the shockingly stupid amount of things waiting for him. His phone was never this lit on a good day; he couldn’t understand why it got so much activity suddenly — and while he was K.O’ed, go figure.

Checking the missed calls first, his heart stopped a hard beat when he saw four of the five were from Mr. Stark. They started around early afternoon, the latest one coming through just twenty minutes ago.

He left a voicemail for each.

Peter quickly swiped away. There was no way he was dealing with that right now.

Text messages were easier to deal with. Text he could handle.

Peter swiped out of the messages, moving onto the next bunch. He could get back to Ned at a later time; conspiracy theories really weren’t his priority at the moment. Not with Harry’s name in the inbox glaring back at him, making his stomach turn with guilt — it wasn’t fair to leave the guy hanging, not after spending all that time spent tutoring him for basically nothing.

“Oh, no.”

Peter dropped his phone mid-text.

A forceful hand flew to his mouth.

“Nononono —”

His legs stumbled right out of bed, feet hitting the floor with hard purpose. They kicked at the discarded water bottles that had fallen over, and he nearly broke his bedroom door with such force swinging it open. Peter ran out long before he could hear it make a crack against the wall.

There was no warning that accompanied the lurch of his stomach. Tight cramps quickly became something entirely different. Before he knew it, Peter’s head was dipped deep in the bathroom’s porcelain toilet bowl.

The taste of vomit as he heaved and gagged was sickeningly enough, aggravating his already queasy insides into expelling a never-ending stream of burning bile. It felt like every noise he made was similar to an exorcism, his back reeling with each wave of nausea that tore through him.

It felt like it wouldn’t stop.

Even as his stomach contracted, twisting into some sort of demented pretzel, and even as hot tears wet his eyelashes and moistened his face, Peter didn’t understand what was happening.

Shaking hands clenched the toilet seat, and the pungent stretch of his own sickness invaded his nostrils as he waited it out, hoping that there was nothing left for him to purge.

It wasn’t often a thought of his, but he was really, really, _ really _glad May wasn’t home right now.

“Holy cow.” Peter fell from his knees onto his backside, a deep, guttural groan echoing off the bathroom tiles. Sweat dripped down through his greasy hair and into his brows, mixing with the mess that leaked from his eyes.

That. Sucked.

Wearily, shakily, he grabbed a wad of toilet paper and wiped his mouth clean. Minutes passed as he stayed on the floor, staring at the bathroom rug that probably needed a good wash but had been neglected on laundry day.

He must have ate something bad yesterday. May’s meatloaf, maybe? It was the only explanation.

‘_Don’t think I ate yesterday,’ _ Peter tossed the crumbled toilet paper into the bowl where it sank deep into the mess he made . He swallowed thickly, his throat burning like it was coated in acid. _ ‘Slept all through today. No eating. No food. _ _ That’s...weird.’ _

With every bit of his common sense that wasn’t too exhausted to function, Peter knew it didn’t add up to be sick on an empty stomach. Way deeper past that, he knew it made absolutely no sense for him to be sick at all. He hadn’t even caught the common cold since the spider bite.

He pushed the thought aside, flushing it down the toilet with the contents that stained the bowl. It was strange. He never remembered drinking coffee either, yet the disgusting looking vomit took on an eerily similar role of coffee grounds. Almost a dark, burgundy red tint to it. It was so bizarre, Peter couldn’t help but stare as it swirled down the drain.

God, his life was weird.

From the ground where he sat, Peter gripped the edge of the sink, forcing himself upwards. His knees buckled before he found his balance. It was a conscious decision to bypass the mirror that hung on the wall, opting not to look at himself on the way out.

He didn’t need his reflection to tell him he was a hot mess. He knew that solely from how he was feeling.

Thankfully, and as slowly as he walked back to his bedroom, the gnawing sensation in his abdomen began to abate. He was careful with each inhale he sucked in, worried that one breath too many might reawaken the beast that had used his insides as a punching bag.

“Damn…” Peter muttered, his bedsprings squeaking as he sat back down on his bed. With careful regard, he picked up a discarded water bottle on the floor and began to take small sips. Even the little bit of liquid he swallowed felt heavy, too heavy, like led in his chest.

Okay, maybe this was a little _ too _weird, even for his liking. Some answers definitely wouldn’t hurt. Maybe Karen could check his vitals, scan him for anything out of the ordinary —

Right. Peter didn’t have his suit anymore. His hand clenched the plastic water bottle in his grip, crushing it under pressure. He didn’t have Karen, and if he called May, she’d just call Mr. Stark, and once again something small would be blown way out of proportion.

Peter looked to his pillow, where his phone laid discarded in his rush to get up. Going back to sleep sounded like the most amazing thing ever. He was really, _ really _ready to call this day a loss.

Half of his text messages still weren’t answered. He hadn’t even looked at MJ’s yet.

‘_Ugh,’ _Peter dropped the empty water bottle, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. MJ was still waiting to hear back from him about making arrangements to try on their formal wear for Homecoming. That was just around the corner, and he knew how she liked to do things well in advance. She’d be livid if he procrastinated on this one.

A chuckle almost left his mouth. Peter wondered why it happened to be every single Homecoming he went too resulted in losing his suit from Mr. Stark.

Granted, this was only his second Homecoming...but still. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Peter rubbed his eyes until they felt raw and tender. He’d see MJ at school tomorrow, they could talk about it while she went over his history exam. Maybe he’d feel better by then. With how lightheaded and tired he felt right now, God only knows what stupid things he’d say to her.

Besides, the very idea of talking to anyone else made his gut tighten into a stiff ball again, and with a hard swallow, Peter decided he did _ not _want to kiss the rim of a toilet bowl anytime soon.

As if on perfect cue, his stomach began to gurgle with a noise that sounded eerily similar to a raging sea in the middle of a storm.

Alright, so maybe trusting things to get better on their own wasn’t his best option in the book.

Peter grabbed a pair of socks from his laundry basket, ignoring how badly they needed to be washed in favor of being lazy. He wasn’t aiming to please with his appearance, not with where he was going. Sweats and a baggy t-shirt would do just fine.

The twenty dollars May left for him stood out among the other ideas on the kitchen counter. He snatched it on his way out, grabbing his hoodie from the coat rack before leaving the apartment.

Rush-hour traffic was just barely starting to die down, and for once, Peter had no desire to extend a fast errand into something more. No suit, no way to patrol. And quite frankly, he wanted to get back to the apartment asap. Sixteen hours of sleep clearly wasn’t enough — all he could think about was going back to bed.

It was a good thing the bodega was only a few blocks away. What should have been a quick ten-minute walk ended up kicking Peter’s ass, in more ways than one. Half-way there and he found himself winded, struggling to breathe the warm, nearing the end of summer air. At least back at the apartment there were fans in his room, a way to circulate through the muggy temperature and keep him mildly comfortable through the bulk of the season.

Once outside, a crushing wave of vertigo nearly stole his balance at every step. Like no inhale was deep enough for his lungs. Warm, muggy, and overall downright miserable.

“Watch it, asshole!”

Peter jerked to the side, barely avoiding a bicyclist as they came rolling down the hill, full speed ahead.

Well, damn. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing at his forehead uselessly to rid the pounding in his skull. Here Peter thought his spider-sense was a constant thing — magical nanotech mist excluded, of course. The moment he felt a little under the weather, it decided to pack its bags and leave him high and dry?

‘_So not cool.’ _Peter shook his head, forcing himself to hurry through the last block ahead. The sun was nearing gone, a slight orange and pink glow hiding behind the clouds the only remnants left of daytime.

He didn’t want to be out once it got dark. Under the weather or not, it made him feel guilty. Knowing he wasn’t able to uphold his responsibility. Knowing everything that would happen in Queens without him there to stop it.

It wasn’t fair.

Walking into Delmar’s cool air-conditioned shop was a relief, albeit one that was short-lived.

“Jeeze!” Peter clutched his hoodie, wrapping both arms tightly around himself. “You guys leave the freezers open in here or something?”

Leaning on the counter, Delmar shot him a look, eyebrow so high it nearly hit the ceiling.

“It’s ninety-two degrees outside and you’re wearing a sweatshirt thick enough to incubate a gooses load of eggs.” Delmar shoved his magazine aside, standing up straight as he gave Peter a long once-over. “You doing the drugs now, Mr. Parker?”

Peter rolled his eyes, heading straight for the pharmacy aisle at the end of the store.

“No, Mr. Delmar, no drugs,” Peter mumbled, staring blankly ahead at the shelves where different medications were stocked. It felt like ages since he last bought anything for when he was sick. He wasn’t even too sure where to begin. He wasn’t even too sure what he was sick _ with. _“Just...you know, got a cold. Or flu. Or something.”

“Or something…” Delmar repeated skeptically, eyeing Peter even as he rung up another costumer. “You know, my wife’s got this great thing she makes for that. It’s some kind of Turmeric drink. It’s good for you, got lemons in it, ginger, turmeric…”

Delmar’s voice faded away, muted in Peter’s ears, drowned out by the sharp, piercing ringing that drilled into his head. He scrubbed at his eyes for the millionth time, already feeling the tissue on his lids grow pink and irritated.

The array of different products on the wall could have very well been labeled in some crazy alien language. For the life of him, Peter couldn’t concentrate on a single one. He scanned the shelves, up and down, finally settling his eyes on a bottle only to lose focus a second late.

It was impossible to concentrate. Like his mind wasn’t even his own anymore.

After what felt like too long, Peter finally picked through the items without a care. One of everything it was. Just to be safe.

“...and you stir the pot for about fifteen minutes. Or five minutes, can neither remember which. Once the ginger becomes really pronounced you —”

Delmar stopped talking the moment Peter dumped an armful of items onto his counter. A second later, and he reached into his hoodie pockets, pulling out two more bottles that his arms couldn’t carry.

Peter forced a tight-lipped smile.

Delmar studied his face, as if waiting for more items to magically appear from other places.

“That everything?”

Peter nodded, regretting the action immediately. It was like his head had turned into a maracas, rattling to the beat of a song he’d do anything to stop.

Delmar turned his head around, hollering to the other clerk nearby. “Hey, Keith, get me a number five, don’t forget the pickles —”

“Uh, no, no,” Peter quickly interrupted, shaking his hands to match his words. “Not – not tonight. Feeling a bit...you know…”

For whatever reason, Peter decided to motion to his stomach, realizing a second too late how idiotic he looked mimicking a child telling their mom they felt sick.

Luckily, Delmar seemed to take pity on him. “Can take it home. Goes good with soup. Soup’s good for a flu.”

Once again, Peter forced on a smile too fake for his liking. The feel of his lips stretching across his face was almost as painful as the migraine that took residency in his head.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

A hasty glance outside the bodega doors and Peter realized it had gotten dark, streetlamps and store lights now his guide home. Looking around, he also caught notice of the few customers in the store staring at him. More than that, they were gawking.

Peter made a face. Like they hadn’t seen a sick person before? He quickly grabbed the back of his hoodie, yanking it over his head with frustration.

No matter how much he loved Queens, there would be times he simply could not handle the New York attitudes. Tonight was one of those nights.

“You know…” Delmar was deliberate in ringing up each item as slowly as possible, going as far as to review each one with careful, noisy consideration. “This stuff ain’t no good for you. Poison. Bad for the liver.”

Peter arched an eyebrow. “It’s _ medicine, _how bad can it be?”

Delmar hummed, lifting a bottle of Advil close to his eyes, squinting as he read the small print on the back of the box. “All chemicals. No good.”

Peter fought off a hard shiver that nearly shook his body sideways.

“Don’t you smoke?” he asked, a foreign lace of spitefulness coating the retort.

The look Delmar proceeded to give him was colder than the store itself. Peter couldn’t find it in him to care; he _ really _wanted to get home, and he’d already been out longer than planned.

“Besides,” he added a playful tone to his words to lighten the tension, “when did you of all people become a health nut?”

Delmar tossed the many bottles of medicine into a plastic bag, making a few clicks on the register before taking Peter’s money. “Wife’s trying this new thing. Holistic or something. Has some valid —”

Keith, residing from behind the deli counter, took the plastic bag from Delmar and pushed it straight towards Peter.

“It’s a bunch of bullshit mumbo jumbo where they eat grass and gloat about their clear pee. Don’t listen to him, he just wants to make the misses happy.” Stuffing the receipt in with the rest of Peter’s item, Keith offered a small smile. “Feel better, okay, kid?”

Peter forced a chuckle, nodding thanks while taking the overly stuffed bag of medicine. Only once grabbing onto it did he realize he _may _have over-done it with his purchase. One more item and the plastic was sure to rip apart. No wonder Delmar had been staring at him like he’d grown five heads and three noses.

It took a good second to get to the bodega doors. Peter almost couldn’t get his legs to work at first, too heavy to maneuver, feeling like cement leaked into his calves and stole basic function away from his muscles.

A small meow caught his attention on the way out. Sitting on top of a beer cooler was Murph, looking more relaxed than Peter had felt in months. Even with the chill expression, the cat was intently eyeing every customer that walked around the store.

Peter managed a weak smile. Delmar’s own furry little security monitor.

“See ya round, Murph,” he muttered, lifting a hand to pet the cat on his way out.

He never got the chance to brush up against even one single strand of fur.

“_HiiiiIISSS!!” _

The violent, unexpected sound was enough to startle Peter backward, stumbling on the balls of his heels until his back hit a dusty magazine rack.

“Hey!” Delmar poked his head out from behind the counter, leaning over for a better look. “What’s going on over there?”

Peter shot his head towards him, wide-eyed and stunned.

“I don’t know!” he answered honestly. “I went to pet him and —”

“_HIIISSSssss…__” _The hair on Murph’s back stood up straight, the cats back end high in the air while he hissed directly at Peter.

With a gulp, one that managed to convulse his stomach into a knot, Peter managed to regain his footing. He picked up the magazines that had fallen from the rack, never moving his eyes away from Murph the entire time he cleaned up the mess.

In his entire lifetime of shopping at Delmar’s, not once did Murph hiss or snarl at him. Heck, the cat literally wouldn’t hurt a fly, no matter how many swarmed around the bodega.

“He’s never acted like that before,” Peter mumbled under his breath.

A low, borderline feral growl came deep from Murph’s throat, his whiskers pulled back and his body laid low. He looked ready to pounce, prepared to attack at any wrong move in his direction.

Peter frowned. As badly as he wanted to comfort the cat, his presence was clearly an agitation.

This was turning out to be the weirdest day ever. And he’d only been awake for an hour.

“Cats are smart, ya know. Intuitive,” Delmar called out, his eyebrows pulled down, furrowing intently. “Maybe he senses something off with you.”

Peter looked up to the counter, clutching his plastic bag close to his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“C’mon D-man, knock it off,” Keith argued from the deli. “Let the kid go home already, he’s sick and you’re just full of shit.”

“Hey! _E__res un puto gilipollas_ —!”

Peter shook his head, hard. The mismatched banter between the two store owners was his opportunity to slip out unnoticed, avoiding being pulled into an argument he had no energy to be apart of.

It was a feat in itself that he managed to get home in one piece, his pace taking a drastic decline compared to just a brief while ago. If Peter was being honest with himself, he didn’t remember most of the walk. By the time he opened the front door of May’s apartment, he wasn’t even sure how he got there.

An otherwise concerning thought that he pushed away for another day.

His bed was calling to him in ways he couldn’t resist, the urge to sleep so overwhelming he could have collapsed on the living room floor and been snoring before hitting the rug.

Peter dumped the contents of the plastic grocery bag on his dresser, barely catching a few bottles before they rolled off. At the same time, he swiped almost randomly at his phone, tapping the screen a few times to access his voicemail.

As Peter unscrewed the lid to an anti-nausea bottle so pink it made his eyes hurt, his voicemails played on speakerphone.

_First Message_

_ Sunday, September 24  th  , 8:36 AM _

“_Mr. Parker. _ _ Screening my calls, I see. _ _ We need to discuss a few things. You know how to reach me.” _

Peter made a face. Mostly from the taste of nasty pink chalk labeled as medicine, and partially from Mr. Stark’s voice encompassing his bedroom. Why couldn’t the guy just let a burn heal? Was it really necessary to be jumping his throat again so soon after what happened?

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, popping lids off other medicine bottles as the messages kept playing.

_ Sunday, September 24  th  , 1:22 P M _

“_Call me. You know who it is.” _

Peter swallowed down a handful of capsules, swigging them back with more liquid, pink chalk.

_ Sunday, September 24__th _ _ , _ _ 5 _ _ : _ _ 06 _ _ PM _

“_Hi, Peter Parker? It’s me, Tony Stark, world renowned billionaire, genius, philanthropist. When you find the time in your busy schedule, call me. We need to talk.” _

No more than a few seconds after Peter finished most of the medication, and he could feel it threatening to make its way back into his mouth. It took a surprising amount of effort not to projectile puke a rainbow of different colors onto his dresser. The idea of how gross it would taste in reverse was enough to pull him through.

There was little to no chance that any of what he bought would have any effect on him. Peter knew that, and he scrubbed harshly at his face as the thought mocked him. Still, the last thing he wanted to do was waste it all down in a toilet bowl.

With a grunt, he collapsed onto his bed.

The voicemails kept playing in the background.

_ Sunday, September 24  th  , 8:21 PM _

A loud sigh caught his attention. Peter did a double-take; it wasn’t from him.

“_Pete _ _ … _ _ ” _

Looking up, Peter stared at his cell phone, his tired eyes barely in focus.

“_Listen…_ _ ” _ There was a shuffling in the background, and Peter could hear as Tony cleared his throat more than once. _ “I know...I mean, I get that you _ _ — _ _ shit, kid, _ _ this isn’t easy to say. And I certainly don’t want to be pouring my soul out over a damn voicemail. Just...please. Call me back. I know I’ve been hard on you. Too hard. _ _ I’m long overdue for a few apologies and...well, I know things haven’t been peachy between us lately. I know I’m partially at fault for that. Mostly at fault.” _

Something rattled in the background, and Peter knew Mr. Stark well enough to know it was a screwdriver or wrench of some sorts tapping on the surface of a desk. He always fiddled when he was nervous.

“_You know, Rhodey really said it best. I tend to go one extreme or the other. I just want the best for you, _ _ Undroo’s. _ _ But _ — _ and take this in real good, because this will be the only time you hear me say this _ — _ I’m not immaculately perfect at everything. I have no idea how to navigate this. I’ve been overbearing, absolutely. That’s fair. I’m open to constriction criticism. A part of me has realized I’m just following in the same steps as my own dad and _ — _ that’s irrelevant, comparison doesn’t fit. You’re a smart kid, you make great points. I’m not your dad.” _

Peter could feel his heart drop down into his already queasy stomach, settling there where hot, boiling juices corroded the tissue. Of all things for Tony to latch onto, it just had to be the one thing he regretted saying the most.

Damn it. Peter smacked a palm against his face, a fresh wave of dizziness swarming his head at the feel. Why couldn’t he stop himself from saying that?

“_Regardless. Apologies for my behavior. You don’t need someone like me breathing down your neck, after all. Just hear me out when I say...well, __I’m...new to this whole...thing. Whatever __it is, whatever __you feel it is. I’m just trying to do right by you.”_ There was another sigh, blowing into the speaker-phone and creating a crackling static. “_And like all things, I’m massively screwing that up along the way. __So let’s just take a moment and figure things out. Together. __We’ll talk about this, when you’re ready.”_

_Messages complete. No new messages. To replay your message, press _—

Peter snatched his phone, shutting off the app in the process. For a moment, he didn’t move. Somehow, he was afraid that the slightest twitch would cause the device to start replaying messages, tripling his guilt and whatever other nasty feeling was embedding itself in his bones.

Crap. He hadn’t meant to make Mr. Stark sound like...well, like _ that. _He sounded awful. Upset. Really, really upset.

It probably didn't help that Peter had been ignoring the man for weeks now. The whole situation had definitely gotten out of hand. It was hard not to feel an immense amount of guilt for his part in all of it.

But he was tired. And every part of him ached, cramped, and shook with a feeling that felt like his blood boiling inside his veins.

With one hard, rough movement, Peter stuffed his cell phone underneath his pillow. Out of sight, out of mind. He’d deal with everything tomorrow. Everything that needed taken care of, everyone who was blowing up his phone wanting his attention — he’d handle it all tomorrow.

Right now, he just...couldn’t.

Peter swore he was asleep before he even closed his eyes.

_P̵͇͑͐̇̑̅̊̈́̈́̈̾̐̚͠͝e̶͔̘̱̥̰̣̭̪̤̙̻̲̲̓͊͑̈́͝ͅt̵̮̯̺̮̘̖͔̟̺͋̎̿͊̃͗̈̈́ͅe̸̢͓̞̐̆́̌̓̍̐̈̆͋r̵͙̫͎̦̙̦̳͗̓͋̐̓́̽̿̅̋̈́̐̓̓…̴̨̪̟̯̮̤̰̫͎̫̱̈̅̓ͅ_

_P̸̢̮̖̩̍̿̈ē̵͙͉̜̦̦͆̔͂͘t̴̪̼̭̩̙͛ê̷̮͓̮̓r̵̠͙̙͚͊̇̑͂̚…̴̰͕̩̈́̑̔̚_

_It’s hot. Burning. His skin feels on fire, his insides boil and blister away in the heat._

_It feels wrong._

_It feels like death._

_A̶r̶e̷ ̴y̵o̷u̵ ̶t̷h̷e̶r̵e̷?̷_

_He needs to breathe. He needs air _ — _air that’s too hot, a furnace steaming inside his lungs, searing away the soft, delicate tissues of his organs, his body, his brain. _

_A force grabs him in an unwanted embrace, choking him, suffocating every fiber of his being._

_He can’t get away. He wants to scream, to howl until his throat collapses and his windpipe caves in. No sound escapes his mouth. _

_W̠͕̰͍̰͚͔e̛̫̠'̢̱̪r̝̥͙͚͉e̖̜̥͚̤ͅͅ ̙h͈̬̱͕͇̫͎e̲͓̦r̠̪͇͇̙͙e̢,͎͉̗ ̨͇̹̯̻͕͚P̗̥e͚͉̳̪̯̹͟ͅt͖̪̦̮̯͞ͅe͡r͈͇͖̩_

_ Something crawls along his skin, every inch of him exposed, vulnerable to the grease that beg _ _ ins _ _ to course along his body. His flesh creeps in buckled waves. The feel is sickening, repugnant. A slimy lard inching along his arms, his back, his legs. _ _ Up his neck, into his mouth. _

_It violates him. Chokes him. Slides along his tongue and through every open crevice of his teeth, wrapping around his jaw and holding him hostage. It trickles down his throat, unwanted, coating his esophagus in a thick layer of sludge. _

_He screams, gags, begs for reprieve. No sounds are heard. Nothing besides the miry, wet whispers that speak with horror. _

_L̗̭̟̩͙et̯̞̬͉͕̗̖ ͔̹̠̼͕u͞s̠̬̱̳͎̥̩ ̮̻͙̺̝ͅi͓͚̹͍̹̲̯n̫̱͙̭̩̼.̖_

_ Poison consumes him, a black plague drowning and seeping into his pores, leaking out of his ears and every orifice. _ _ The substance gorges _ _ into his body _ _ , pouring into his stomach with no relent. _ _ Pumping into his intestines, defiling the nature of his physical being. _

_ Hands clutch at the thick, oozing fluid and he pulls, tugs, yanks with every bit of strength he c _ _ an _ _ conjure. Out, out _ — _ get it out, please, get it out! _

_W͞e̵̦̪̪̜̜̰’̦͉͇͍͙̫re̵̟ͅ ̮̰͜h͔͍̬̗̪͔͝e̙re̙̲̥̯͠ ҉͖̺̱̙͇̳f̸̟̮͍̲̗o̠͈r̯ ͈̟͔̻y̗̱̺o̧̬̥̪̺u̙̻͠,̴͉̗̥ ̬̳͠P͏̟͍̤͖̭e͓̮̫̠͚ͅț̰̦̟̬e͉ͅͅr̮̫̗̠̟͕.҉̗̦͕̘̱̭̺_

_His eyes swell shut, pressure building from behind his skull as the __ether__ begins to seep out from within. It cakes his eyelashes, __c__oalesce__s_ _along__ his cheeks and trickles down to his nose, becoming one with the leakage that pours from his nostrils. _

_ He tries, and tries, desperate to stop the onslaught _ _ of tendrils that grips him _ _ , _ _ the _ _ inundat _ _ ion of burning chemicals that _ _ befoul _ _ and s _ _ hakes _ _ his core. _

_He screams. _

_No sounds are heard._

_L̗̭̟̩͙et̯̞̬͉͕̗̖ ͔̹̠̼͕u͞s̠̬̱̳͎̥̩ ̮̻͙̺̝ͅi͓͚̹͍̹̲̯n̫̱͙̭̩̼.̖_

_L̼͘e̳̗t̛̫͎̩̫ ̷̳̖u̙̗͎s̫̩͇̞̤̼ ͔̝i͖͈̺̘̳n̠̠̤̫͡,͝ ̢̙͎̝̳͕P̜̮̪͕̭ͅe̹t͖͍e͔̥͉r.̮̩͔͓̟̮_

_P̴̪̤̹͓̤̫̯̩̳̠͚͈̳͟͝͡ę̵̛̳̣͖̜͖̬̟̲͈̩̳̗̬̰̦̤̦̙͖͢͡ṱ̴̸̮̺̘͙e̸̜̠͓̥͎͈͚͕̭͇̭͓͕͓̙̹͎̝ŗ̙̭̪̟̹͚͇̠͉̺̲͡.̧͎̘̣͙_

_P̴̻̳̪̱̙͓͙̟e̛͎̲̫̲̦̦͉̳t̶҉̮̗͈̙ͅe̸̷̪͙̫̕r͉̼͘͠ͅ.̸̞̟̼͕͈͜_

_P͈e̙̠t͚e͎̭r͉̱̼̖̪̻.̫̞̞_

“—ter!”

Peter shot his eyes open, a startled gasp caught in his throat as he blinked, trying desperately to clear the blinding light that flooded his room.

“Pete! C’mon, Parker...” The faded voice grew louder, stronger. Piece by piece, cotton was pulled out from his ears, and he could feel his eardrums ring sharply at the frustration of it all. “Hey, kid! Talk to me, Underoo’s, you’re freaking me out here.”

The bright, white light that stole his focus slowly dimmed away as his vision grew sharper at the edges. Peter squinted his eyes, unable to make out the blob of red and gold in front of him.

Red and gold? Wait, was that —?

“Holy shit —!” Peter scampered back into his bed, his head hitting the wall with a _ THUNK _that echoed the entire bedroom.

Iron Man was mere centimeters from his face. The LED's on the eyes piercing bright, the metal so close he could taste copper.

“Hey, hey, take it easy!”

The voice — familiar, confident — became much clearer to Peter. He shot his head over to the sound, eyes bugging out of his head once he saw Tony emerge into view, his entire body pushing the Iron Man suit aside.

“Mark 39, stand down! Sentiment mode, _ now.” _

Peter watched with both fascination and horror as the Iron Man armor backed away, moving towards the doorway of his bedroom, completely lifeless of a person inside.

His head then shot over to Tony, who was _ not _in the suit and very much so in his apartment.

Mr. Stark was in his apartment.

In his bedroom.

Right now.

“What the hell, man!?” Peter erupted before knowing what he was even saying.

Tony gaped, his skin somehow paler and the lines around his eyes six inches deeper.

“What the hell is _right_!” Tony’s hand clenched the rail of the top bunk above Peter, his back leaning over to better see. “Kid, I know that you’re a hell of a beast to wake up, but you damn near gave me a heart attack! That thing was checking your pulse to see if you were still alive!”

Peter swallowed hard. He looked over to where Tony nodded his head, pointing in the direction of where the Iron Man suit stood.

There was an Iron Man suit in his bedroom. With Mr. Stark. Both, right now.

“How long have you been here?” Peter’s voice squeaked on each word. His heart was still threatening to burst right out of his chest, pounding so hard it made him sway in his bed with dizziness. It didn’t feel real — was he still dreaming? Was this part of his nightmare?

Tony stepped back, releasing his grip on the bunk bed’s upper guard rail as he did. His confusion didn’t go unnoticed, but Peter was too busy trying to understand what the hell was going on to address it.

“How long have I —” Tony couldn’t finish the sentence. He looked down at Peter, who was still pressed tightly against the wall, blankets in a bunch around his legs. “Kid...are you okay?”

Peter ran a shaking hand down his face, fingers slipping on the grease and sweat that dripped from his hair.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m_ fine._ I was sleeping, I...I have school in the morning, I —” Peter scrubbed at his skin, the feeling of sleep quickly steamrolled by the shock that so abruptly woke him up. “Mr. Stark, what are you doing here?”

Tony shuffled around in the room for a second, flipping on a second lamp that stole the shadows from the corners.

Peter looked around, realizing it hadn’t been all that bright after all. Iron Man’s LED eyes though? Those things could light up a whole warehouse. Especially when directly in front of someone’s face.

A stinging, pulsating feeling grew at his temple. Peter decided waking up _that _way was officially the worse way to wake up.

Ever.

“Pete, look at me…” Tony stayed at a distance, resting his back against the computer desk across from away the bed. “No questions asked. Are you okay?”

The question, repeated for a second time, had Peter five different shades of baffled. His jaw dropped, and no matter how many times he blinked, the scene stayed the same.

He fell asleep without Tony in his room, and now the man was most certainly in his room. He could bewide awake with coffee and it still wouldn’t make sense.

None of this made sense.

“Wow, Mr. Stark. Is this what happens when you’re left on read?” Peter gave a dry chuckle, trying to add humor to the situation in a vague attempt to cut the tension. “It’s a little extra to come breaking in because I didn’t answer your phone calls, don’t you thi —”

“Where’s your aunt?” Tony frowned deeply, clearly struggling to maintain his composure.

Peter opened his mouth to talk, but as he got a good look at Mr. Stark, words immediately failed him. It was the first time since he woke up that he noticed just how casual the man was dressed — wearing nothing but a sleeveless, black tank top paired with sweatpants that looked basic, but knowing him, were probably Armani or some nonsense.

The only other time Peter had seen him so casual had been during their road trip, at the hotels they bounced between while they made their way across the country.

Did he wake Mr. Stark up? How late was it, exactly?

“N-night shift,” Peter finally answered, untangling his legs from the blankets on his bed. “She’s working a double at the shelter. Won’t be back til morning.”

Tony leveled him a look.

“Well, it _ is _technically morning right now.”

Peter looked to the one and only window in his room. It was still dark, possibly darker than when he had left Delmar’s. Though Queen’s offered no stars to see, he could still tell how late it was by the color of the sky. No blue insight, a deep black only illuminated by street lamps and apartment lights.

“Like...when the sun comes up kind of morning,” Peter added, staring blankly at the window on the wall.

It was closed shut, which was a good thing. Still, he thought he locked it the last time he used it. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.

“Did you sneak in through my window?” he bluntly, and suddenly, asked.

Tony let out a huff. “Do I look like the type who would crawl their way through a four by three double pane just to get where I need?”

Peter made a face as he shook his head. “So...what, did you break our front door to get in —?”

“I have a key,” Tony reminded him, stingy tones of insult lacing through his words. “I’ve had one for months. You know that.”

Peter scratched at the nape of his neck, the hazy feeling in his brain clearing way just enough to make him feel awake again. Right, that was right; May had given Mr. Stark a key to the apartment not long after…

Peter shook his head. He didn’t care to think back on that. What mattered was that it had been a few months now. Mr. Stark had a key, and it’d been a few months now.

He honestly forgot about that. It wasn’t like Tony ever needed into the apartment. Until tonight — for whatever reason.

“And even if I didn’t…” Tony sniffed, hard, the base of his thumb swiping aggressively against his nose. “Well, maybe I’d eat my words and climb through that tiny ass excuse of a window to get to you. I’d bust down that door if I had to — it’s cheap, I can pay for the replacement.”

He looked to the bedroom doorway for a moment, his eyes purposefully averting Peter’s gaze even in the dimly lit room.

“I’d do anything I need to for you, kiddo,” his voice went low, softening in a quiet whisper. “Now, you’re way past freaking me out, and I doubt you want to see what happens when I cross that line. It’s not pretty. It’s catastrophic. Ask Pepper, she has all the juicy details.”

Peter furrowed his brows, and Tony turned his head towards him, locking eyes dead-on.

“Just...talk to me. Are you okay?”

Something about the way Tony was speaking sounded off to Peter. Wasn’t he screaming at him not too long ago? Like, yesterday. It was literally yesterday that he was shouting and yelling at him, telling him to leave the compound, the team, all of it — and possibly never come back. It was the reason Peter sat in his own bed, in his apartment in Queen’s. It was the reason he wasn’t spending the weekend at the compound like they agreed.

Just like May, it had been another promise broken. Another adult telling him something that he couldn’t trust. For Tony to sound like he suddenly _ cared _— Peter clutched at his bedsheets, biting his tongue from saying anything he’d regret. Again.

“Mr. Stark, I…” Peter trailed off, his mouth drying as he fought through the waves of confusion clouding his mind. “I really don’t know why you’re here.”

The look Tony gave him was indescribable.

“You hit your panic watch.”

A ton of bricks crashing down on him wasn’t enough to describe the feeling that swallowed Peter whole. It was more like a building, collapsing and crushing him under a hundreds, thousands of pounds of steel.

It was all too familiar, and it made his lungs constrict and spasm with the feeling of dread.

“I what?”

Tony lifted his arm in the air, the sleek, black band strapped around his wrist firing off a rapid succession of red and blue lights. The first time Peter had ever seen anything like it, the device never emitting any color besides the default black it was designed to be.

Peter looked down at his own wrist. Though no colors lit up his, it was still there, the nanotech so seamless on his skin he’d once again forgot he was wearing it.

“Oh,” Peter managed. His hand began to tremble, and he quickly stuffed it under the blankets. “I...I musta hit it in my sleep. Or something. I-I’m sorry.”

What the hell — Peter forcefully swallowed past the knot that began to crawl up into his throat. He didn’t remember activating the alarm. He_ didn’t remember __doing that._ There was no way he did that on purpose.

Right?

As if to reinforce his doubt, Tony shook his head.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

Peter tried to shrug casually, knowing full well that he was failing to look anything beyond anxious.

“Well...have you ever tried it before?”

“Peter,” Tony stressed, clearly not amused by Peter’s smart-ass attempt at humor.

Peter threw a hand up in the air.

“I’m serious, Mr. Stark! I guess I rolled over or – I dunno, something coulda caught onto it…” his voice took on an edge of panic before he quickly shoved it aside. “But I didn’t touch it! I swear. I would totally let you know if I did. One-hundred percent, cross my heart. I...I’d totally let you know.”

For the first time since he arrived, Tony let out a sigh heavy enough that Peter could smell his breath from across the room. He stuffed his hands deep into his sweatpant pockets, staring up at the ceiling as if he was counting to ten — which Peter realized was actually a very likely thing to be happening. He had the tenancy to bring out _ ‘that side’ _of the man sometimes.

It was strange. Peer always saw Tony as someone so well put together, the type who stood tall with nerves of steel and perfect poise. For a split second, he seemed rattled. Downright shook.

It was a far cry from how they were yesterday.

Then, before Peter could blink, he was looking down at him with slightly more composure than the moment before. Though the stress lines around his eyes had deepened significantly, and exhaustion wore vividly on his face.

“You’re okay?” Tony asked again, a bit of relief easing the tense pressure that had been building between them.

Peter nodded a little too hard, faintness making his eyes dance and wander.

“I’m fine.”

There was a pause. The brief silence that fell between them was harsh enough to send goosebumps up the course of Peter’s arm. Or maybe that was from the look Tony was giving him, cold-stoned and harden like a rock.

“Try that again.” Tony shifted from one foot to the other, his lips pressed back and his eyes hard. “This time with a little more feeling.”

“Mr. Stark —”

“You look like shit.”

Peter gaped, his own breath coming out in large puffs, making him realize he absolutely needed to brush his teeth. “I just woke up!”

Tony let out a snort, folding both his bare arms over his chest. “Yeah, and I’ve seen your morning hair before. Cow-tails and all.”

The sarcasm died off the tip of his tongue, and Tony’s demeanor suddenly changed with a slight tilt of his head. He looked at Peter — really looked at him, so intently that Peter wanted to hide under the covers of his bed and never come out.

“You sick?”

Peter wanted to balk at the question. It was kind of hard to, all things considered. He _had _slept the entire day away, and blew dinner money on every bottle of nausea medication he could find at the store.

Still. The idea of opening up to Mr. Stark didn’t feel right. He flat out didn’t want to.

And Peter didn’t like how that made him feel.

“I had an off weekend,” he said instead, the sheer amount of bitterness coating his words impossible to ignore. “Lost my spot on this team I’d been looking forward to joining one day.”

“Answer the question, Pete.” Tony didn’t miss a beat. “You sick?”

Like a broken record, Peter shook his head. He tried to tell himself it was okay, that everything was alright — even as Tony stared him down like he was some sort of project to be examined and figured out.

It wasn’t lying if you didn’t say anything, right?

That sounded right.

So he kept shaking his head.

“Talk to me, kid,” Tony’s tone faltered into something close to unrecognizable. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say it sounded freakishly close to begging. And Tony never,_ ever_ begged. “I can’t do the equation unless I have all the variables.”

Peter fiddled with the material of his broadsheets, pulling and tugging to keep pressure on his fingertips where it could distract his mind from anything but the current situation.

There was a lot he could tell Mr. Stark right now. More than what Peter realized he’d been hiding. Nose-bleeds that hadn’t let up, odd bouts of sickness that kept him in bed all day.

Nightmares.

More nightmares.

“Really, Mr. Stark. I’m fine.” It didn’t feel like the right thing to say. But Peter didn’t stop himself from saying it.

The lie of omission started to taste like acid in his mouth. Or maybe that was the bile creeping up through his throat.

Tony clucked his tongue and swiveled his jaw, working on releasing the stress built up in his muscles. With one fluid motion, he uncrossed his arms from his chest and pointed almost casually to the trash bin next to Peter’s bed.

“You doing pharmaceuticals for fun now, then?”

Peter shot his head to the floor with lightning speed. _ Shit. _Boxes upon boxes littered his waste bin and — okay, fair enough, he couldn’t fight that one. It didn’t look good at all.

“I ate something bad,” Peter fumbled for an excuse. “Made me sick to my stomach. Went to the store to see if anything could help.”

Tony narrowed his eyes, his mouth twisting into sharp confusion.

“Interesting choice in purchase to spend your allowance on,” he dryly stated. “Those drugs don’t touch you with a ten foot-pole.”

A heat of shame began to redden on Peter’s cheeks, and he turned away in hopes that it couldn’t be seen in the dimly lit bedroom. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of was the struggle that Tony, Doctor Banner, and a massive amount of scientists went through trying to create drugs that effected his metabolism.

It was borderline ridiculous how he thought a few bottles of anti-nausea medication sold at a convenience store would do anything for him. As if the chalky, pink liquid that worked on normal humans would even touch his mutated DNA.

“I know,” Peter mumbled, running his hand through greasy hair that desperately needed a wash. “I just...made due with what I had.”

The persistent sound of tapping overtook the room. Peter barely lifted his head to notice Tony gripping his computer desk, his nails _ taptaptapping _on the metal frame.

His eyes were still staring at the waste bin on the floor, even as he spoke.

“Could have called me.” The tapping got louder, faster. “Could have returned _ one _of my calls.”

Peter swallowed thickly. “I was gunna. Tomorrow.”

Just like that, it went quiet again — minus the racket of miscellaneous street sounds from outside, Queen’s New York failing to sleep even in the wee early hours of the morning. The noise seemed to attract Tony’s attention, where he looked out the bedroom window with a low hum sounding deep from his throat.

“That’s fair,” he mentioned, so quietly Peter almost didn’t catch it. “I didn’t exactly give you any reasons to keep me on speed dial.”

The words struck a cord. Peter had a lot of things he could say about that. A whole lot. The seams of his bedsheets got tangled up in his fingers, his nerves working overtime in fidgets and twitches. Perhaps if muck wasn’t coursing through his brain, he could have managed a response. Like, _any _response at all.

From the way Mr. Stark looked though, it was probably best he didn’t say anything. A stab of guilt hit him, fast and hard, the lack of any talking suffocating and stifling.

As mad as he was with the man, Peter didn’t mean to stress him out.

He also didn’t mean to hurt Natasha yesterday. But that was a story no ears were willing to hear.

“Well,” Tony started, clapping his hands together with energy that didn’t seem genuine. He pushed himself away from the computer desk, his fingers working meticulously on a holographic image that appeared from his forearm. “It looks like I flew over one hundred miles for an apparent butt dial. Could be worse ways to spend my Sunday night.”

Peter watched with piqued curiosity as Tony tapped and swiped at the fancy device on his arm — within seconds, the Iron Man suit standing in his doorway began to leave, walking on its very own despite no human being inside to operate it.

Not long after, the apartment door opened and closed shut with his departure.

Peter almost had to wonder what that sight would look like if any of his neighbors were up and about. The Johnson’s in 3.B would probably have a heart attack from shock alone.

“I’m..really sorry, Mr. Stark.” Peter’s head fell forward, strands of his hair falling to cover his eyes. “I didn’t mean to...I swear I didn’t touch it. I don’t know what happened.”

He didn’t want to look at Tony, to see the way the older man was staring at him. Like he knew it was a lie. Like he knew there was no way his technology had malfunctioned.

Peter didn’t know what to say. The truth made no sense — he didn’t remember hurting Natasha, and he didn’t remember activating the panic watch.

He didn’t want to lie. But he just didn’t remember, and no one had believed him before.

It was like he didn’t have a choice.

“Did you wanna...take the watch?” Peter offered, bringing his wrist out from underneath his blankets to showcase the device, going so far as to have one hand start removing it. “Check for any, like, abnormalities or whatever?”

Tony’s hand clamped over his faster than Peter could blink.

“No,” he insisted, a sharp edge coating the word.

Peter’s head shot up to meet Tony’s face, suddenly so close to him that it sent shivers up his spine. He went to slide his hand away from what feeble attempt was made to remove the bracelet, only to be stopped by the strong pressure of Tony’s fingers latched onto his wrist.

If Peter didn’t know better, he could have sworn he saw a glimpse of fear reflect in Tony’s eyes.

But it was late — early — one of the two. And he was tired. It was easy to brush it off as a mistake.

“No,” Carefully, and slowly, Tony removed his hand from over-top Peter’s. “No, I want you to keep wearing it.”

Peter watched Tony intently, the man leaning over the bunk-bed with worry soaking through every ounce of his being. With what little energy liveliness he could muster, Peter managed a forced smile, one that felt as awful as he was sure it looked.

“Okay…never take it off. Always got it on. Twenty-four seven,” his voice squeaked in pitch and he quickly turned a grimace into a sheepish smile. “Metal detectors aside.”

Expectantly, Tony found no humor in the call-back. Slowly, he leaned back on the balls of his feet, standing over Peter in a way that the light from behind him cast shadows along his face.

Peter clenched his eyes shut for a moment to force clarity back into his vision. The room was starting to blur at the edges, and it wasn’t long before two Mr. Stark’s were looming over him. He almost didn’t hear him as he spoke again, his ears ringing with such force that it made even his nose hurt.

“Pete, kid…” Tony started, “we gotta talk about yesterday.”

That much he _did _hear. Peter groaned, forcefully rubbing a hand on his temple with a bit too much strength.

“Does it have to be right now?” he asked, his teeth set tightly against one other. “I’m just...I’m _really _tired.”

Tony’s slow sigh of defeat was infallible.

To Peter’s surprise, he didn’t respond right away, no immediate argument that shut down the request, or belittled his need for sleep. The Tony from yesterday had all since buried itself away, returning the much more understanding, calm Tony that Peter had come to know before. The one that Peter felt comfortable around. The one that Peter almost wanted to have stick around a little bit longer, even if his eyelids were already drooping shut against his will.

Footsteps softly patted on the floor of his bedroom. Peter barely looked up to see Tony had approached the computer desk, grabbing something from the shadows that he couldn’t make out even if his eyes weren’t seeing double.

“Okay...” He cleared his throat, sniffing hard. “I can concede to that. Only fair. But before I go…”

Peter had zoned out. He knew he had zoned out only because the next thing that grabbed his attention was placed directly in his lap, red and blue, brighter than anything in his room.

Slowly, he lifted his neck, raising his head to meet Tony’s face.

“You’re…” Peter didn’t understand. “You’re giving me my suit back?”

The feel of soft fabric sitting in his hands almost didn’t feel real. Of everything that felt the most bizarre today, this one topped it all.

“Well, it is _ your _suit,” Tony managed a weak smile, barely tugging at the corner of his lip. “Wasn’t fair of me to take it in the first place. I can admit to overstepping my authority, crossing one line too many. And for what I can’t admit to, others will force it out of me.” A weak chuckle got caught in his throat, and Tony cleared it away. “But...I stand by this one. Your suit. Not mine to take away.”

Peter ran a hand across the spider emblem, the black design staring back up at him. A spark of pride nearly had him smiling, the reality of it all tearing it down as quickly as it came.

He didn’t deserve to have the suit back, no matter how much he wanted it. Not after what he did, not even after now — he wasn’t telling the truth, he wasn’t being honest.

He shouldn’t have the suit back. Mr. Stark should keep it.

And yet it felt so good just to hold in his hands again. It made him feel whole again.

Peter’s bottom lip danced for a moment, before he finally looked up. “I thought —”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Tony waved him off, checking his watch briefly for the time before turning back to Peter. “Tomorrow, perhaps? I can free up some time in the evening. Make up for missing Friday. Double the lab work, double the pizza.”

For once in weeks, Peter actually wanted to say yes.

“I...can’t,” he shrugged and rubbed at his temple, the growing headache making it hard to think. “Detention for...you know. Then a study session.”

“Right.” Tony popped his lips, nodding along to the unspoken. He arched an eyebrow before shrugging it off. “Well, some other time then. You have my number.”

Peter could only manage a nod, shakier and faster than Tony’s. Everything he wanted to say stayed lock in the depths of his mind, so far away from his mouth that the words could never form. It felt like the first time he’d ever dug a hole so deep that there was no possibility he’d ever climb out.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more. Admitting the truth and facing the consequences, or continuing the lie for his own comfortable denial.

Tony had turned on his heels, only to spin around just as quickly.

“One thing before I go,” he said, crouching down to Peter’s eye level so quickly that it nearly startled Peter right out of his skin.

“What are you —”

“Look at me.”

Peter blinked owlishly, his brows scrunching up with confusion. Tony was mere inches from his face, so close that neither could tell which was their breath and which belonged to the other.

“Huh?”

Tony leveled him a look. “Just humor me, kid.”

Even if Peter didn’t want to, there weren’t exactly many other options for him to latch onto. With reluctance and a bit of panic, he stayed still, a deer frozen in headlights as Tony practically corralled his eyes to him.

It was weird.

Super weird.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter gulped, “what are you doing?”

Tony’s response was blunt and to the point.

“Looking at your eyes.”

There were a lot of weird things Peter had found Tony doing over the course of their time together. Mentor-ship had quickly turned into an odd friendship of sorts, lab nights being shared with odd pizza toppings and funky music, hotel rooms shared across the country with more candy than Peter was sure he should be eating. He’d seen the man at his oddest moments, sincere moments, times where he felt like Mr. Stark was a human and not some Hollywood figure the news made him out to be.

Of all their time spent together, Peter could easily mark this one down as the weirdest.

“Why?” he choked out, unnerved the longer Tony bore his eyes into him.

It was another beat before Tony looked away. Although Peter wasn’t sure if he ever truly looked away, rather he simply stood up, brushing off his sweatpants with a grin that definitely didn’t feel genuine.

“No reason.”

He lingered for a moment, head cocking to the side as if he was still trying to get an answer that hadn’t arrived yet.

Finally, and with more resistance than felt necessary, Tony turned to the small lamp in the corner of the room and flipped the switch off.

“Get some sleep, Pete,” he quietly mentioned, heading for the door. “You look exhausted.”

A fist clenched his bedsheets tightly, and despite the room falling into darkness where Tony could see him, Peter nodded his head.

“Yeah,” he croaked o ut, watching as Tony’s shadow began to depart in the doorway. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

His words echoed the bedroom, no response to drown them out. It wasn’t long before he could hear the sound of the apartment door opening, a good pause blocking the time before it creaked shut and the locks bolted everything securely.

Peter waited until he was sure Tony was gone. And then a handful of minutes afterward, just to be safe. Once he could feel his heartbeat settle in his rib-cage and his pulse resume to something semi-normal, he unclenched his fist from around his blankets.

Just as quickly, and with a breath hitched in panic, Peter stuck two fingers deep into his mouth. Fingernails dug and swirled around underneath his tongue, desperately searching for the nauseating, oily substance that he could feel creep up from his throat. It felt foreign, wrong — slithering, slimy against the soft tissues of his cheeks.

Withdrawing his fingers from inside, Peter’s eyes grew wide as he saw first-hand what he pulled out. A thick, oily sludge coated his skin, crawling underneath his cuticles and nails with frenzied spasms that acted and looked alive.

Peter gagged. He forced down a bout of sickness, his eyes clenched shut as the black substance began to drip in steady drops onto the spider emblem of his suit.

* * *

Queen’s was surprisingly awake for three-thirty in the morning. Tony wasn’t all too surprised; New York never slept.

And neither did he, apparently.

Standing directly outside the Parker’s apartment building, he paid no mind to the folks that passed on by, giving odd looks to him and the Iron Man suit that stood ready for flight.

The armor was ready, but Tony wasn’t. Though he knew staring at a building all night wouldn’t make a difference, something in his gut kept him from leaving. Maybe he was waiting for the panic watch to go off again. Maybe he was watching for a text, or a call.

Or something.

Honestly, Tony wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

Natasha had seen black eyes. He wanted to have seen black eyes, he wanted to believe in the hype that everyone had been going on about. Maybe that would have finally given validation to the nagging feeling in the back of his mind something wasn’t right.

Because something just wasn’t right. Black eyes, no black eyes...there was no denying it.

He just didn’t know what _it _was.

Tony’s lips pursed so tightly he could feel the hair of his goatee tickle his skin. The kid looked like death warmed over. Hell, he looked better when death was _actually _warming him over, back a few months ago when shit all went downhill.

The variables just weren’t adding up. His behavior, drug store medication, how pale he was, the raccoons under his eyes, how weak he sounded — everything Tony wanted to mention but held back, because dammit_ , _they were at square one again. He had gone too far, and this is where it had put them. Peter wasn’t going to trust him if he had to force an answer.

Peter barely trusted him now as it was.

Lying was not a good look on the kid.

His hand clutched the camera in his grip. Tony gave it a brief glance, the expensive model he’d bought for Peter’s birthday now in his possession.

This is what it had come to — he was stealing from the kid to get answers. Taking what wasn’t his in hopes that it would provide even the smallest of clues. Desperate to see if there was anything that could tell him what was going on in the radio silence of questions he’d put out there.

Tony couldn’t blame Peter in the least bit for not trusting him. It hurt in ways he could never say to lose that trust. But it hurt more to see the kid succumbing to something far beyond his control.

Damn it, why did everything have to be so complicated?

Biting back a sigh, Tony pulled out his cell phone from the pocket in his sweats. The number he needed was on speed-dial; his phone was pressed to his ear in a matter of seconds.

It rang four times before someone answered.

“_Tony?” _

He closed his eyes at hearing the voice on the other end. It took a good second to gain the courage to speak.

“You were right,” he managed, his voice thin against the still-busy traffic from the street.

There was a crackle, a rustle of noise on the other line. Finally, _ “...where are you?” _

“Uh-uh, that was going to be my question. You can’t have it.”

A sigh, one not from him, surprisingly enough. _ “I’m still in D.C, we had the quarterly review with Director Hill, remember?” _

Tony clucked his tongue, chewing on the answer for a moment, his hand unintentionally gripping the camera tighter. Not even the car alarm blaring from a block away could penetrate his deliberating thoughts.

“How fast can you make it back upstate?”

The sound of friction and stirring movement came through, and Tony wasn’t sure if the honking cars he heard were on his end or the other.

“_What’s going on, Tony?”_

The question provoked a long stream of silence. He didn’t like it — it gave him too much time to think. Too much time to stare at the unchanging apartment building in front of him, where he wanted to do nothing more than burst right through that tiny bedroom window and make something happen, for better or worse.

But Tony stood still, fighting every urge in his muscle and ignoring every screaming command in his brain. He’d do this the right way, the only way that had the possibility of success.

He had to. There weren’t any other options now.

“You were right, Steve,” Tony admitted. A darkness seeped into his tone, an urgency that rattled him to the core. “Something’s wrong with Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live in a magical, fantasy world where Peter’s $20 could buy him THAT much pharmaceuticals. In NYC, nonetheless.


	14. Correlation vs. Causation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's fingers gripped the hefty camera tightly, his feet slowly approaching the row of compact, mini-fridge sized equipment lining the walls. The closer he got, the warmer he felt, the heat radiating from inside strong enough of feel at even a distances length. He could tell that the tank was humid, fog condensing the edges of the glass.
> 
> He cocked his head to the side, studying the object inside. The sharp tingle at the base of his skull increased, but so did his curiosity.
> 
> Peter snapped a photo, just one, before lowering his camera down.
> 
> Whatever was inside, they were growing it. Breeding it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you guys to know...the AMAZING, mind blowing, absolutely _shocking_ response to the last chapter really lit a fire under my ass. I'm not sure I've ever written a chapter this quickly; not at its word count, anyhow. I seriously finished an entire scene in one day and almost cried. So thank you, to every single person following this story, commenting, for the kudos and re-blogs and shares...it means EVERYTHING to me.
> 
> I almost feel bad for the amount of torture that I'm gunna put everyone through now.
> 
> Almost.

“Alright...” Rhodey shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest with a sigh deep enough to rattle his shoulders. “This is low. Even for you.”

Tony didn’t bother looking his way. Sitting at his computer console, he took a large sip of coffee from his mug, his other hand clicking wildly at the mouse in his grip.

“I have doubts about that,” he muttered, the screen of the monitor reflecting on his face. “Forget spring break ‘87 already? You swore you’d never let me live it down.”

Leg braces whirred with a mechanical hum as Rhodey took a step forward, hovering over where Tony sat, practically hunched over the keyboard in front of him. The persistent clicking of the computer mouse was borderline maddening, gaining such speed that the monitor almost couldn’t keep up. The images kept freezing with lag.

Tony’s frustration was palpable at the lack of efficiency.

“You stole the kid’s property, Tony,” Rhodey admonished.

Tony set his coffee mug down on the desk, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Not stealing if I gave it to him in the first place.”

More clicking followed suit. Pictures of different tourist locations flew across the screen — Grand Canyon, Yellow Stone Park, the Golden Gate Bridge — followed by a slew of much more odd photos, like six empty bags of gummy worms and three cans of cola with the place tag for some hotel Rhodey didn’t recognize.

It was photos from their road trip, the one he knew Tony took Peter on last month. The SD card belonging to the camera glowed a dim blue as it stayed slotted in the computer console ahead.

Rhodey huffed. “Remind me never to give you a gift.”

The sound of his disapproval was drowned out by the glass doors of the workshop sliding open, though not loud enough to overtake the continuous clicking of Tony’s mouse. While Rhodey turned his head to greet the newcomers, Tony didn’t budge an inch. His attention on the screen ahead was laser-sharp, problematically hysteric.

Not even the stomping footsteps from behind could break his focus.

“Didn’t you say you were going to back off Peter for a bit?” Clint’s accusation tore through the room, a frustrated edge to his voice bouncing off the walls.

“Yeah, about that,” Tony dryly cut in, eyes unwavering from the monitor, “that’s not a thing anymore.”

Steve was less than two feet behind him, heavy exhaustion wearing on his face. “Clint, we went over this —”

“That’s Peter’s camera.” Clint froze in place, jaw unhinged. His eyes bounced from the computer monitor to the camera sitting on the desk where Tony sat, the plastic of the expensive model reflecting under the workshops overhead lights. “You get permission to take that?”

Rhodey gave a slight shake of his head. “Clint, man, don’t —”

“_Yeah, _about that,” Tony stressed again, his clicks becoming faster. “Don’t you know me by now? I don’t do well with needing permission.”

Rhodey rubbed aggressively at his temple, and Steve leveled Clint a look, practically imploring the man not to start a fight.

Clint didn’t back down. “What, you don’t know how to handle some off-the-wall behavior from a teenager — so you’re just going to spy on him now?”

Tony spun his chair around, arms thrown in the air as he faced the group for the first time. “He already thinks I’m spying on him!”

Clint stomped ahead. “So you’re going to prove him right?”

Steve turned away, looking up to the ceiling as he mentally forced himself the patience needed to approach the situation. Rhodey hadn’t let go of his forehead, close to scrubbing the skin away with the pressure of his fingertips.

Tony eyed Clint intently, staring him down for a second that felt too long. Finally, he spun his chair back around, the glow of the computer screen highlighting the stress lines on his face.

“No,” he curtly threw back. “I’m going to figure out what the hell is going on with him.”

Rhodey sighed. “Devils advocate here —”

“The devil can’t help you now.”

Natasha’s voice was an unexpected sound that caught them all off guard, though Tony had little interest in her sudden presence. The remaining three turned around, watching as the glass doors slid shut on their own accord, the noise never heard opening over their bickering.

Though knowing Natasha, she’d find a way to sneak in even if they’d been dead silent.

Clint turned to face her, hand outstretched with frustration. “Nat, this is ridiculous! You can’t seriously believe —”

“I meant what I told you,” she insisted, her voice low, edged with coldness. “I meant every word of it. Regardless of who believes me.”

As quickly as she turned to face him, Natasha turned to Steve, who leaned his backside against the nearest desk. His khakis wrinkled against the metal frame behind him, and the button-down shirt he wore ruffled when his arms crossed over his chest. His exhaustion didn’t deter him from the situation at hand. He locked eyes with Natasha as she stared him down.

“I know when to trust my instincts.” Natasha took a deep breath in, eyes flickering back to Clint only for a brief second. “And I know better than not to.”

The unspoken didn’t need vocalized. Steve nodded back to her, his belief and support steadfast and solid.

Clint shook his head, aggressively fast. “You guys are full of shit!”

Rhodey dropped his hand down to his side. “Clint, man —!”

“You train this kid to fight like, what, an assassin like you, Natasha? A solider like you, Steve?” Clint grabbed the back of Tony’s computer chair, forcing him to spin and face them. The look he received in return was hot enough to burn. “_You _took a teenager and put him in a war-zone. _You _wanted him trained for combat, and the moment he starts behaving like us, you lose your shit on him. You’re a hypocrite.”

Tony looked up at him from where he sat, the shadowy bags underneath his eyes somehow darkening underneath the overhead lights.

“You done yet?” he dryly asked.

“I’m just getting started,” Clint sneered.

“Stop it.”

Steve’s command was far from robust, exhaustion sinking its teeth deep into his words. Slowly, and one by one, they turned to look at him. He didn’t meet their gaze, his head bowed low to his chest, his eyes locked intently on the floor.

He chewed on his thoughts before speaking again.

“This isn’t the time for disagreements. Whether we all believe it or not, one of our own may be in trouble. If there’s even a one percent chance that something could be wrong with Peter, it’s in our best interest — and his — that we act on it.” Steve straightened his back, lifting his head while managing to lock eyes with everyone at once. The determination behind the blue irises was prominent. “Though I don’t agree with Tony’s methods, I think he’s right to take action. Especially after what happened last night.”

A soft sheet of confusion seemed to wash over Clint, one that visibly took him aback. He released his grip on Tony’s chair, his head bouncing between the group with incomprehension.

“No one told me anything about last night.” A beat passed as he dry swallowed, his throat bouncing with force. “Is that why we left D.C in a rush? What happened?”

Natasha pulled her jacket closer around her waist, barely looking Clint in the eye when she turned towards him. “We felt it was only right if Tony told you himself.”

Clint narrowed his eyes as Tony rolled his.

“Of course,” Tony drawled out, immediately turning back to his computer screen. “Because I haven’t dealt with enough in the past forty-eight hours.”

The clicking of a mouse resumed, though not nearly at the same pace as before. Tony fiddled on the computer, the flat-screen monitor pulling up a different array of screens, some minimized, some enlarged, all keeping him intently focused on the task at hand.

Clint’s impatience grew by the second. “Are you going to tell me or —?”

“Hold your horses, Barton.” The lack of any snark or humor in Tony’s tone was enough to create a thick, suffocating course of tension. Even Rhodey seemed concerned, his head cocking slightly to the side as he examined Tony from his position near the desk.

A few moments later, and Tony pushed his chair away from the screen, giving full access to the others for viewing.

“Five months ago, I designed this device specifically for Peter. It’s an emergency signal — a panic button. It’s tied directly to the one I wear. If he’s ever in trouble, he knows to activate it. I get the alert, and I respond.” Tony showcased the black bracelet strapped around his wrist, eyeing it himself before dropping his hand back into his lap. “It’s a no questions asked kind of deal. I don’t care _what _trouble he’s in. Burning building, hostage under the sea, or upset that he bombed a math quiz. He’s got a way to seek help. At all times.”

The raw, almost breakable crack in Tony’s voice was enough to shake the room. The confidence he usually carried on his back had been rattled, and it was obvious.

Clint noticed. His demeanor took on a change, softening around the corners as he stuffed his hands into his jean pockets.

“Didn’t know that,” he settled on saying, briefly clearing his throat. “No questions asked...that’s a good way to go about things with teenagers. Smart thinkin’.”

Tony gave him a look, though the heat behind it was halfhearted at best. “I may not be Farmer Joe raising six kids on the prairie, but I _ was _a teenager once. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know how they act.”

Clint made a face. “I don’t have six kids —”

“He activated the panic alarm last night.”

Clint’s eyes grew wide, and he did a double-take to the others to make sure he had heard things correctly. Their lack of surprise was instead filled with a distressed confirmation. Clint turned back to Tony, who seemed equally as upset.

“Oh shit,” he mumbled. “Is...you know, is he okay?”

Tony didn’t hesitate with a shake of his head. “No.”

Clint arched an eyebrow high.

“He _ told _you he wasn’t okay?”

Tony stopped shaking his head, opting to turn back to the computer instead.

“No.”

“For the love of —” Clint made a noise that stayed locked in his mouth. “Tony, is there _ any _ possibility Peter activated the alarm by accident?”

Craning his head over his shoulder, Tony bluntly — and curtly — stressed, “_ No. _”

The blueprints of the design began to flicker away, one by one, as Tony closed them out and resumed his search through the SD card slotted in the console. 3D outlines of the device were instead replaced with candid pictures, each scrolling along the screen faster than anyone could keep track of.

Clint waved a hand around at the computer ahead.

“I’m not even going to question how any of that even works,” he mentioned, holding back a sigh before continuing.“I’m also not going to question anyone’s instincts here. Nat, Steve..._ Tony. _ If you feel something’s up — okay, I can play with that. But why? Why are we kicking the kid off the team _ and _ the premises, and why the hell are we stealing his stuff?”

Tony leaned back in his chair, eyes still locked ahead on the monitor. “Remember how Linda Blair looked in The Exorcist?”

Rhodey huffed. “Before or after the head-spinning act?”

Tony didn’t entertain the question with an answer. The computer monitor in his face highlighted the red spider-cracks in his eyes.

Clint balked. “You are _ not _comparing Peter to some demon possessed character from a 1970’s horror movie. Even you’re better than that.”

“No, that’d be crazy,” Tony agreed, making a vague motion with his hands. “Give it a few days. Then I’ll be comparing.”

This time, Clint didn’t hold back the sound of aggravation that came from his mouth. He turned away, muttering something under his breath that only he could hear. A brief look towards Natasha, and he realized that his feelings of disbelief weren’t shared — with that, he walked away a bit further, working to calm himself down in the corner of the workshop.

In his place, Steve stepped forward; arms still folded tightly over his chest.

“Did he really look that bad, Tony?” he asked, soft-spoken with concern.

Tony didn’t look his way. “Would I say it otherwise?”

There was a heavy pause between them, filled only by the computer’s sounds working meticulously as Tony tore through the files embedded to the camera’s memory card. Steve managed to take a few more steps closer, his footsteps barely heard against the ground.

“So you believe us now?”

Tony pursed his lips tightly, forcing himself to count to ten — and possibly over that — in an attempt to remain mollified. A part of him knew Steve was just trying to gain confirmation, an evil necessity in a circumstance like this.

But last night was hard enough for him as it was. In more ways than one. He admitted Rogers was right — he didn’t care to do it all over again. Quite frankly, he didn’t care to think about _ any _of this more than he had to. It made him sick to his stomach just remembering how piss-poor the kid looked a few hours ago.

“What, you want to toot your horn?” Tony tossed back, sarcasm dripping on his tongue. “Gloat? Give me a good _I told you so?” _

Steve sighed, shaking his head. “I just want to know that you’ve come around to the possibility.”

Tony clicked a few more times on his mouse, but his eyes weren’t paying much attention to the photos ahead. They were of happier times, just a month ago. For the life of him, he didn’t understand how things went wrong so quickly.

“Yeah, well...I’m there,” he admitted, his voice low in his throat. “Possibility acknowledged. Denial out the window. Something’s definitely up with the kid.”

Steve was close enough to Tony now that the man could smell his cologne, the travel kind he used when out of state. He _ did _just rush back to the compound at Tony’s request, after all. No wonder he looked exhausted.

Hell, Tony needed a week off anytime he had to deal with SHIELD meetings. It was an impressive feat that Steve could bounce back so quickly.

“Tony...it’s okay.” Steve laid a hand on his shoulder, firm, and present. Tony tried not to flinch away. “Sometimes it’s difficult for us to see the things we don’t want to accept.”

There was something heavy in his chest, and Tony forced himself to swallow a swig of coffee to bury it away. He returned to the monitor almost immediately, not wasting a second between breaths.

Nothing had made sense so far. Every time he tried to solve the problem, more variables popped up. He had barely conjured up three possibilities to explain what could have occurred last night.

Peter really _ did _activate his panic watch by mistake, which held the least chance of probability when all details were taken into consideration. And Tony had meant it — he didn’t design the watch that way. If anyone could just hit the damn thing and send the alarm off, than he would have been dealing with butt dials all summer long.

There was also the possibility that he activated the watch only to regret the decision. Lied about doing it. The likelihood was real. After all, he wasn’t exactly making the kid feel comfortable around him these days. Maybe he really felt in danger, but decided to handle the situation himself.

Tony didn’t like to think about that possibility.

So he didn’t.

Third and final one — he meant to hit it. Peter meant to activate it, but something was keeping him from remembering. He was in danger, or felt he was in danger, and knew he needed to seek help.

As much as Tony hated to dwell on that, hated to think about Peter being trapped voiceless to whatever was causing him distress, something in his gut told him it was the most likely of all three.

It lit a fire under his ass to figure things out. Asap.

“Kid had a bunch of drug store medication in his waste bin,” Tony recalled, almost speaking to himself. “Whatever’s going on with him...think he’s sick from it.”

“Then that settles it.” Rhodey’s no-nonsense, unyielding tone ripped right through the quiet that had fallen through the room. “Bring him back here. Get Cho to look him over. We don’t mess around with sick kids.”

Tony tiredly shook his head. “Not gunna be that easy.”

“You’re the adult, Tony,” Rhodey tossed back. “Don’t ask, tell.”

“It’s _ not _going to be that easy,” Tony stressed again, barely craning his neck to look up at Rhodey. “You don’t understand. Peter has no trust in me right now. Zip. Zilch. Negative five point zero.”

“I can’t imagine why, what with the stealing and all that,” Clint wryly drawled.

Tony opted to ignore that statement, despite glaring a heated glance in Clint’s direction. The archer shrugged in response.

“If I force him here, things could turn ugly real fast.” Tony tapped his index finger on desk surface, eyes wide as he stared Rhodey down. “Do we really want to be fighting the kid down? Literally?”

Steve furrowed his brows. “You’d think Peter would resort to violence?”

Tony’s mouth set in a thin line.

“I don’t know,” he cautiously said, turning Natasha across the way. “You tell me, Romanoff.”

Natasha looked up, having been otherwise hushed through most of the conversation. Her exhaustion seemed to be shared with Steve, her eyes slightly puffy and skin appearing tired, lacking the usual color that brightened her cheeks.

Though Tony hadn’t seen her since the incident, the three having taken flight to D.C not long after, he could tell without a doubt that she hadn’t been the same since. In a way, he couldn’t blame her. If anything, he regretted not coming to her side right away.

He shouldn’t have had to see things for himself to know something was wrong. Once again, his stubbornness got in the way of the gravity of the situation. He could only hope it wasn’t too late to repair the damage.

“I think Tony’s got a point,” Natasha quietly mentioned, unfolding her arms from across her chest. Slowly, she stuffed them deep into her jacket pockets. “If we can figure out what could be wrong with Peter before approaching him...it might make our case stronger. Prevent any permanent fall out from occurring.”

Clint spun around from where he stood in the corner of the workshop, one hand gestured high in the air.

“And if we can’t?” he asked, his frustration evident. “If we need Peter to figure out what’s wrong with Peter?”

Tony had to refrain from letting his shoulders slump down to his toes, unable to look Clint head-on with a response.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he gruffly managed, turning his focus back to the multitude of camera pictures displayed on the screen.

Clint’s sigh was heard from the other side of the workshop. He moved slowly as he approached the group, hesitant to walk at all. While Tony, Rhodey and Steve all remained huddled towards the computer consoles, Natasha had stayed a good handful of feet away from them.

Clint walked up towards her, making sure to keep a distance and protect her personal space.

“Black eyes, Nat?”

His question didn’t need further explanation. She looked at him, expression solemn as ever as she nodded.

“Black eyes.”

Clint hadn’t been there. He received the details, of course, and even those were hard to swallow. But at the time, it seemed blown out of the water. It didn’t make sense to be mad at the kid when they were training him to fight for life and death situations.

Now, though, the whole situation seemed to take on a different perspective. It was hard to stay in denial, what with the world they lived in. Clint couldn’t reject the possibility of something out of the ordinary happening, not when he himself had been brainwashed and mind-controlled by someone who didn’t even reside on this planet.

He looked towards the other men, his chin bobbing with thought.

“You think he contracted something while held hostage in that clandestine lab down in the ocean?” Clint asked.

All Tony did was shake his head. It was Rhodey who turned to look at him inquisitively.

“That was five months ago,” he gave the words time to settle, briefly thinking it over himself. “There’s no way, he’d be showing signs a lot sooner.”

Clint shrugged. “Not necessarily.”

Steve shook his head, his eyes as focused on the screen as Tony’s were. “It’s too far stretched.”

Clint couldn’t argue. A hand rubbed at the nape of his neck, and he walked to the desk ahead, standing directly behind Tony’s computer chair.

The mouse clicked continuously as the billionaire searched through the hordes of digital photos that never seemed to end. Clint had seen some of these before. Most of the group had, in fact. Peter was eager to show off his photography when he first got to the compound after their road trip. No one had put much, if any thought, into the thirty days the two spent on the road.

Now, Clint was re-evaluating his perspective from a strategic point of view.

“Where else could he have come in contact with something?” Clint pointed to the screen. “Tony, you guys come across anything while on your trip?”

Tony craned his neck around and tossed an aggravated hand ahead.

“Does it look like it?”

There were a lot of photos — a _ lot _ of them. More than Clint took on his family vacations; and his wife always nagged him about not living in the moment. The kid was a bonafide photographer in the making, snapping any opportunity that landed at his feet. Clint knew he had a passion for the camera, but he had to admit, he never knew it existed to this extent.

Unfortunately, pictures of diner food, hotel rooms, and Tony and Peter shaving their faces together didn’t lead to any clues that helped their problem.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony muttered, clicking through the next bunch of photos. They appeared to be more relevant, no longer from the month-long trip they had been looking at for what felt like hours now. “Does this kid take enough selfies?”

Clint snorted a laugh, amused as picture after picture of Spider-man came flashing on the screen. Even Rhodey smirked a grin, and if they didn’t know better, they could hear a mumble of _ ‘just like you, Tones’ _said discreetly under his breath.

“What’s a selfie?” Steve asked, looking around for an answer.

Rhodey pointed a limp finger to the screen while Clint shook his head.

It didn’t take long for Steve to catch on. Especially as one after another, Spider-man photos swarmed the memory card. Pictures taken on a bridge, on a roof, mid-swing —

“You know,” Steve started, folding his arms over his chest. “If Peter wants to keep his identity secret, it might not be wise to have him take photos like these. Especially leaving them wherever anyone can get access.”

Tony snorted a laugh so hard, it surprised all occupants in the room.

“That’s nothing,” he said. “I had to hack access into his school’s security system last fall and put alerts on the cameras. Tells me when the twerp decides to crawl out a ninth story window with his suit hanging out of his backpack. At least this way, I can delete the footage before any suspicion arises.”

Steve arched an eyebrow high into his blond hairline. “If that’s the case, we should probably be training him for more than just combat.”

Stating the obvious wasn’t nearly close to the right sentiment that Tony felt. He blew a sigh through his cheeks, barely offering the solider a glance.

“One thing at a time, Capsicle.”

Some days — most days — it felt like an accomplishment just to get Peter to return from patrol before curfew. It was an uphill battle with the kid, and he never made it easy. Tony figured it was only fair, seeing all the trouble he put everyone through in his lifetime.

A thought struck him hard enough to make his head hurt. Tony rubbed at his temple, taking a quick break from the glow of the computer screen.

May was still waiting for him to explain how he discovered the fight Peter had with Flash. Something about how she told Pepper that Peter suspected her of ratting him out to Tony and — _ shit, _ he was not looking forward to explaining this one.

Kid felt like he was being spied on twenty-four seven. Knowing about his access to the school’s security cameras wasn’t going to go over well.

At all.

In Tony’s defense, he _ had _saved Peter’s butt on more than one occasion with deleting some footage that came his way. There was no way in hell that someone wouldn’t have handed it over to some trashy tabloid, outing Peter and his Spider-man identity.

One of these days the boy was going to need to learn how _not _to crawl out of windows where he was being watched.

Tony hadn’t realized he was still clicking through photos, so lost in his thoughts he wasn’t even paying attention to the screen. It wasn’t until Rhodey’s hand suddenly gripped his forearm that he jerked back to reality.

“Hey, hold on.”

Tony shot his head up with lightning reflexes. Blood-shot eyes stared at the monitor, growing wider by the second.

“Whoa.” He immediately sat up straighter in his chair, practically inches from the screen.

The feel of Rhodey, Clint, and Steve coming closer behind him would otherwise be a threat to his personal space, but Tony was too distracted to care. He could even see Natasha’s red hair in the peripheral of his vision, which was a surprise considering how close his eyes were to the monitor ahead.

There was no making out what the photo was, not at first. It looked foreign, completely out of place from the rest.

It nearly startled the skin right off Tony’s back.

“That is..._ not _from your trip, is it?” Clint needlessly asked.

It took Tony every ounce of strength he had to click onto the next photo. There were more like it, picture after picture, from all different types of angles. Apparatus cases, oxygen tanks, tube stations, glass-door refrigerators, automated analyzer machines —

It was a lab.

It was a goddamn lab.

“The pictures before this were of Wisconsin’s largest ball of twine.” Tony tried to ignore how his pulse thumped erratically under his skin. “Does this look like it was on our trip?”

Once he had clicked through them all, Tony was quick to click backward, reviewing the handful of images taken. He began to zoom in and zoom around, studious to the equipment that was in plain view. It almost looked like a growing house, like each incubator tank was breeding something.

“Where the hell is this?” Tony gnawed painfully on his bottom lip, his brain working in overtime as he struggled to piece together the information.

“Tony,” Steve stated, his voice taking on the edge of authority. “That’s a lab.”

Tony wanted to do nothing more than roll his eyes out of his skull.

“FRIDAY, enhance,” he said instead, letting his AI take over the computer.

The images on the monitor flickered in fast motion, a sharp stream of computer code running across every pixel that could be seen. Tony couldn’t blame the group for huddling close to the console at this point, despite how uncomfortable it felt to have multiple bodies pressed up against his chair. He stared at the screen intently; they all did.

Then, FRIDAY finally managed to find the smallest possible detail in one of the multiple photos taken. It was a label, a small sticker slapped onto one of the glass panels of an incubator tank.

Tony hissed out a curse.

“Son of a _ bitch. _”

The word OsCorp filled up the screen, enlarged and taunting in view.

“OsCorp?” Steve looked to Tony, his expression a harsh mix of shock and anger. “When was Peter in OsCorp?”

It was a good thing Tony didn’t have his gauntlets nearby. As it was, it took every bit of restraint he had not to call on them from his other workshop across the compound. He wanted nothing more than to blow to smithereens the image in front of him, shatter the computer monitor into tiny bits of glass. It was a vile sight, creating a pit in the depths of his stomach that ached and screamed.

Screamed like his skin against the freezing ice waters of the sea, the bloody cries of a boy taken hostage where he couldn’t escape.

All because of OsCorp.

“Three weeks ago,” Tony coldly stated, a dangerously cruel edge exuding off his lips.

Natasha gripped the back of his chair and spun him around to face her.

“You _ knew _he went to OsCorp?” She didn’t ask. She demanded an answer.

“I didn’t exactly give my blessing!” Tony snapped. “Osborn’s son invited him there for a tutoring session. Peter said they went straight to some kind of loft area — he didn’t say a damn thing about any of this, he didn’t — goddamn it!”

Tony shot up from the chair, nearly pummeling Natasha to the ground in his haste to get up. She barely managed to avoid getting shoulder-bumped as he forced his way through the group, his hands clenching painfully at the roots of his hair.

He should have known better. He knew weeks ago that something was up, when he got the alert that Peter’s panic watch had been removed, when the location was OsCorp of all places. He thought he could trust the kid, he thought he’d tell him the truth —

When did things get so bad?

Tony fought through the wave of panic that began to send goosebumps along his arms. Now wasn’t the time for anxiety — he needed to think straight. He needed clarity.

He needed answers.

“FRIDAY, analyze the substance in these images. I want to know what these incubator tanks are breeding.”

“**Yes, boss.” **

The Irish accent from overhead echoed through the workshop, briefly taking the room by hold. Steve was still busy staring at the screen, even as FRIDAY did her magic on the photos. Clint was splitting his time from the monitor to Tony, and Natasha was flat out eyeing Tony down with a look that could kill.

If Rhodey didn’t know better, he’d say she was a few seconds from launching an attack.

It wasn’t hard to tell when these were getting heated. A day where the group didn’t argue and bicker was a day where Rhodey needed to worry. It was just how the mismatched bunch went about things — at the end of it all they worked well, but amid trouble?

It was amazing to think that they had saved the world more than once. If folks had seen the behind the scenes, Rhodey was sure they’d lose any confidence they had in the _ Mighty Avengers. _

He stepped forward, slow in approaching Tony, careful to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes.

“How long since Peter’s been behaving strangely?” he asked, an arm gesturing behind him to the screens image. It continued to flicker and fritz out as FRIDAY dissected its smallest pixels. “Since this? Since he...went somewhere he clearly wasn’t supposed to go?”

Clint scoffed, and Natasha shot him a hard glare. The humor in teenage irresponsibility obviously wasn’t shared.

Tony kept his back to the group, his hands noticeably scrubbing down the length of his face.

“I don’t know…I….” he blew a huff of air out of his cheeks, rubbing harshly at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know! We got into a fight a few days after, he… but that was different. That was…”

Stammering words died off on the tip of his tongue. The lack of clear certainty in his voice gained everyone’s attention, Steve included, who turned away from the monitor with an arched eyebrow.

“That was what?”

Tony shook his head, muttering something no one could hear.

Steve glanced back at the monitor, and then turned to face Tony with a hard-pressed look.

“Tony, if we’re going to help Peter, you need to be honest with us.”

Wrapping both his arms tightly around his chest, Tony bowed his head low to the floor, somehow making himself seem smaller as he turned to face them. His choice not to meet their gaze was noticed, his shoulders hunching high as he swallowed his next sigh.

“Kid had an anxiety attack,” Tony explained. His tongue ran sharply over his teeth, and he worked his jaw as he forced himself to continue. “It was my fault, I brought it on. I mentioned too much about that goddamn incident with Klum and Dmitri and...it got him worked up. That wasn’t anything to do with...whatever this is. That was something that’s been there for months now.”

Natasha lifted her chin high. “You think Peter’s developing PTSD?”

Locking eyes with Natasha was like fighting the opposite end of magnets. Tony managed to look her on directly, the sheen in his eyes a bone-chilling reflection under the workshop lights.

“Kinda hard not to, after all he’s been through.”

Tony’s voice was on the threshold of breaking, barely audible through the hoarse crackle in his throat. He looked away, the rising feeling of embarrassment pulling tightly on his skin.

Natasha relaxed her pose with a tiny nod, her stance easing with the heavy weight that had laid on her shoulders. She said nothing more in response. No one did.

FRIDAY was the next person to break the silence.

“**Analysis complete.”** Her voice boomed from the ceiling. **“No results found.”**

Rhodey laid a hand on the back of the empty computer chair, eyeing the screen with growing frustration. “That’s not concerning in the least bit.”

Unfolding his arms, Tony moved quickly to the monitor ahead, shoving the chair aside to get closer access. The image remained the same; zoomed in, enhanced, lacking any detail from his AI. The only thing they could go off of was the obvious — incubator tanks upon tanks filled with sludge. Slime. Black goo breeding god-knows-what.

Tony clicked the mouse from where he stood, reviewing the images again and again. Each tank took on a different appearance. Some of the goo was dried up, withered, dead like a raisin. Others seemed more fresh, more lively.

The last image taken was the most peculiar. The chemicals inside — whatever it was — it looked the most alive of them all. Almost moving, like each corner of its blob-less body was spasming.

Tony pointed a sharp finger to the screen. “You think that’s it?”

Standing behind him, Steve examined the image with the same gravity as Tony, if not more. He gave a small shake of his head, a shrug that matched the act.

“OsCorp has been keeping the files under lock and key.” Steve turned his head to the side, eyeing Tony. “It would make sense that FRIDAY can’t determine what it is if there’s no documentation on it.”

Natasha stepped next to the two, her interest vibrating off her skin. “Are you talking about the Oz Formula?”

Tony nodded stiffly, but didn’t look her way. “It’s a possibility.”

His hand moved away from the mouse, leaving the screen to reflect the last image taken on the camera. The picture stayed frozen, unmoving, the sheen, shiny black housed in a cage taking on an almost ominous appearance.

Rhodey’s leg braces made a hum of noise as he moved closer to the desk, pushing the chair off to the side so he could stand closer to the three.

“Yeah, but of what likelihood?” he asked. “It took me months to get the smallest details on the Oz Project. With military clearance, nonetheless. You really think Peter just so happened to waltz into a room where they were keeping samples of the formula?”

“_And _was infected by it?” Clint added in.

Rhodey gestured a hand in his direction, physically agreeing with the objection.

Tony didn’t seem to be put off by the odds. Perhaps he knew just how bad so-called _ Parker Luck _ was. Perhaps he knew just how bad his _ own _luck was. The two combined...it called for a shit-show that couldn’t be stopped.

This was why he wanted Peter to steer clear of OsCorp. Of the atrocity that was the Osborn’s. He knew in the pit of his gut that they would be nothing but trouble for the kid since he was held hostage in one of their abandoned labs under the sea.

It wasn’t right. Tony wanted to do everything in his power to keep Peter far, far away from this case, from their investigation of the Oz Formula and whatever dirty deeds Norman Osborn was up to. For the life of him, he didn’t understand how he failed at that.

It was his responsibility — and he had failed.

The photo ahead of him was proof enough of that.

“I don’t know,” Tony dry swallowed to regain his voice, forcing down the oscillations that leaked into his every word. “It’s a long shot. But it’s possible. And _that_,” he pointed to the picture ahead, his callous fingers shaking hard for a long second. “That has got to be our first clue as to what’s wrong with him. We figure out what _that _is...and we go from there.”

A tense, brittle feeling washed over the workshop. Though footsteps and restrained sighs kept the space between them from growing too quiet, the thick, sifting stress was strong enough to creep tremors up the length of their bodies.

The weight of the situation was felt deep in their lungs. No exchanges were needed to acknowledge the obvious. Eyes stayed locked on the photo ahead.

“Tony’s right.” Steve was the first to look away, addressing the group as a whole. “Whether Oz or not, if Peter had any contact with this, then there’s a very good chance it’s what’s affecting him. We need to figure out what it is before we approach him with the facts.”

Clint knitted his eyebrows tightly together. “And how exactly do we figure out what this black gunk crud is? FRIDAY’s got no answers, and Wikipedia isn’t going to have much else.”

Tony tore his eyes away from the computer, a glimmer of emotion shinning through the stress in his eyes.

“We ask OsCorp themselves,” he answered, spinning on his heels so quickly it pushed a waft of air through his hair. For a brief and fleeting moment, it almost looked like he was smiling.

With two wide steps, Tony approached Natasha head-on. “How do you feel about attending a personal appointment with me, Natalie Rushman?”

For the first time since she arrived, Natasha smirked.

* * *

“...and you didn’t even _touch _anything about the Japanese surface fleet, which is absolutely absurd — here in your notes you even wrote down _‘Don’t forget the Japanese surface fleet’ _and underlined it like...five times. It’s no wonder Mr. Harrington flunked this. I’ve seen cliff notes that detail the Battle of Leyte Gulf better than you did, and don’t even get me started on the flow and format of — are you even listening, Parker?”

Peter shot his head up from the table. His eyes momentarily danced wildly, floating like rubber balls with no connection to his skull. The entire library was spinning in circles, a crappy roller-coaster ride that he couldn’t seem to get off of.

In front of him, MJ’s face was nothing but a blur of brown and black colors, swirling like water down a drain. He couldn’t make out what was what, dismorphed blobs violently stealing his vision.

He nodded anyway, swallowing hard. “Y-yeah, I’m listening. I’m...I’m paying attention, I swear.”

It was probably his sixth lie of the day — Peter had lost count sometime around third period, when he told his shop-class teacher that he was late because of an emergency phone call from his aunt. The truth was much less pretty, what with him dry-heaving what felt like the entire catalog of his inner organs into the boy’s locker room toilets.

Shakily, Peter used the back of his hand to wipe trickles of sweat away from his forehead before they could drip down into his eyes. The sleeve to his hoodie caught most of the moisture, the skin of his hand catching the rest.

“Uh-huh…” MJ quirked an eyebrow high, barely seen over the long, curly hair covering the left side of her face. “You look warm. Like...you’re making me uncomfortable kinda warm. Take that off, already.”

Peter forced a grin, tight-lipped with no teeth. Forcing his hands to stay steady, he used both sleeves of his hoodie to dry his face before shaking his head.

“I’m good. Just got chills...is all. Just chilly. Where were we? With, uh, with the essay.” Peter leaned over the table, eyeing the pieces of paper MJ had laid out in front of them. They were already tainted with red ink, circling multiple paragraphs and striking through sentences at every corner. “How fast you think we can fix it? Today?”

MJ scoffed, shooting him a look of disbelief. “No way. This catastrophe needs an entire overhaul if you want a passing grade. Maybe we can get it done if by the end of the week if you start paying attention to me —”

“I am paying attention!” Peter pulled a few sheets of paper over to his side of the table, bringing them close to his face to better read the print. The text was hazy, out of focus in a way that made him remember the days of when he desperately needed glasses. He kind of wished he hadn’t tossed his only pair back when The Bite changed his eyes for the better. He could seriously use them right about now.

“You were talking about, uhm...you – you were going on about the...the thing with —”

“If that’s how you’re going to fumble for an answer,” MJ snatched the papers back from him, “maybe it _ is _best Flash takes your spot on decathlon.”

Peter stared at his empty hands, the papers he’d been holding no longer in his grip. MJ had already returned to reviewing the essay with a fine-tooth comb, so intently that her back hunched over the table while her red pen made additional marks.

He sighed, scrubbing two hands down the length of his face with more force than what was necessary.

“I’m sorry, MJ.” The sleeves of his hoodie muffled most of his voice. “It’s just...it’s been a long week.”

“It’s Monday,” she tossed back, not once looking up from the papers.

Peter paused. Mentally bringing up a calendar in his head, he went over the days, his brows furrowing deeply — sheesh, she was right. It hadn’t even been a full three days since his incident at the compound.

Why did it feel like an eternity?

“A long couple of weeks,” he corrected, mumbled in the fabric of his Midtown Science and Technology hoodie.

With resigned frustration, Peter dropped his head down onto the table, covering himself with his arms and hiding himself away. A deep, low groan came from his chest, one not completely suppressed by his hoodie this time around.

MJ noticed, peering up from the paperwork to eye him cautiously.

“You look like shit, Peter.”

Her comment hit like a ton of bricks, said so casually it almost didn’t take immediate effect. Peter didn’t even bother to move his hair out of the way when he barely lifted his head, his eyes looking at her over the barricade of his forearms.

“Huh?”

It was the best he could manage, though Peter wasn’t sure if he could call his croaky, hoarse response _ ‘managing’ _much of anything. His head hadn’t let up on the aggressive tilt-a-whirl ride it had started when he first entered the library, and quite honestly, he’d just be happy if he could make it through the next hour without puking. Especially not in front of MJ.

He’d suffered enough embarrassment recently to last a lifetime. The last thing he wanted was to hurl his lunch — did he have lunch? Breakfast? Meal aside, ho hurling in front of MJ. It was his only priority at the moment.

“You’re doing too much, you know,” MJ’s voice dropped in pitch, quiet as she drew a scribble or two on the bottom of his essay papers. She was doodling now, Peter noticed, drawing something that hadn’t taken form yet. “Should probably clean off your plate a little bit.”

“I’m not.” Peter shook his head, stopping the moment it made his stomach cramp into miserable knots. “Doing too much. I’m not. If Harry can handle all his workload, I can handle mine.”

“Can he?” MJ warily asked, a coldness to her tone making Peter even more chilly than he was a second before. He leaned back in his chair, wrapping two arms tightly around his chest. “Dude spent all that time tutoring you and this was his result?”

With one hand, MJ held up the first page to his essay, waving it slightly in the air. The big, red _ F _on the corner practically mocked Peter. Of all the blurry text, it seemed to be the only one he could read, loud and clear.

“That wasn’t his fault,” Peter insisted. He opted not to shake his head this time, swallowing past a hard lump as vomit’s bitter taste of acid began to creep up his throat. “I rushed through the essay, I didn’t give myself enough time for it.”

MJ hummed.

“Because you’re spending your time elsewhere.” She continued to scribble her drawing, only offering him a brief glance every few pen strokes.

Peter fumbled for a response. Ultimately, the disgruntled sounds of nonsense that came from his mouth was the only reply she got in return. MJ looked away, wordlessly content with the upper hand.

It was a hard fact to dispute. Despite not even knowing the last time he went on patrol — it was definitely before Mr. Stark took his suit, that much he knew for sure. But Peter wasn’t exactly sure _ how _ long before that he went out as Spider-man. Had he even gone out since he returned from his road trip with Mr. Stark?

Had he even gone out since he’d been kidnapped?

The thoughts raced through his head faster than he could keep up with. His mind was muddled, a mess of fog and clouds that he couldn’t fight through. Peter just wanted to sleep — _ God, _he was tired. There hadn’t been a time in his entire young life that he felt this exhausted, bone deep, like someone was possessing him to try and fall into a deep, long coma.

The essay papers still littered the library table below him, and a shiver wracked his body hard.

“I’m not telling you what to do or anything,” MJ spoke up, turning the paper slightly to the side as she worked the pen faster in her sketch. “That’s not my place. You do you. But...you do look burned out. You gotta take care of yourself too, you know.”

Though she didn’t dare lift her head to look at him, there was a noticeable difference in MJ’s face. Something that softened, relaxed underneath the afternoon sun that poured in through the library windows.

It was a good look on her. She didn’t look so defensive, so protective of herself. Like for a split moment, she was able to let her guard down. Peter wasn’t too sure he ever saw her like that.

It was nice.

A smile managed to creep on the corner of his lip. Slowly, he pushed back his hair, damp and gritty from the sweat that poured from his hairline.

“Are you worried about me?”

MJ’s pen stopped moving. She looked up at him with a hard pause.

“Psh, yeah,” she derisively drawled. Almost immediately, she looked away, purposefully hiding her face behind thick, long strands of hair. “I also worry about Ned’s candy habit giving him onset diabetes. Don’t consider yourself special.”

Though the colors of the library had blurred together into one, and Peter still couldn’t make out most of the text to the pieces of paper below him, he’d swear that he saw a slight blush to MJ’s cheeks. And if he didn’t know better, a tug of a grin pulled at her lips.

Deep down inside, he knew that a part of him should be annoyed by her concern. He was frustrated with everyone else’s — Mr. Stark, May, Ned — what made her so different? Why did the idea of MJ being worried about him make him feel...good?

She continued to doodle, though the pen had significantly decreased in movement. Peter smiled, unwrapping his arms from around his chest as he leaned forward and over the table. The papers crinkled underneath his forearms, but he didn’t care.

He liked the way she looked.

Unkempt, hair a mess, no gaudy make-up to hide her natural features. She looked genuine, real.

Nothing had been feeling real lately. Everything had been one mess after another, a crazy string of events that stacked on-top each other. Some days he woke up and wondered what really happened and what was a figment of his imagination. Some days he couldn’t tell reality from his nightmares.

But MJ? She was real.

And she cared.

Peter smiled. It felt good to smile, the stretch along his cheeks taunt, almost aching. It distracted him from the scorched tundra of hammering pain that pounded in his skull, the simmering acid that boiled in his stomach.

For a split moment, and for the first time in days, Peter felt okay.

MJ flitted her eyes up, cocking an eyebrow into her hairline. “What are you looking at?”

Peter swallowed, managing a small shrug.

“You.”

Her face froze, eyebrow locked high as she stared at him straight-on. With much hesitance, MJ released the pen from between her fingers, letting it drop on the table below them.

“Okay...why?”

Peter’s smile widened. The blush that spread across his cheeks formed not just from the heat of his hoodie, but something more.

“You look really pretty.”

His voice was so quiet, MJ almost didn’t hear him. It took a beat before the words registered, where her eyes grew wide and she quickly found herself looking away. She made a few glances left and right, and even behind her back, as if double-checking that of all people in the library, it was her that he was talking to.

There was no one else around. Even the librarian wasn’t to be found at the check-out station.

“Thanks.” MJ turned back to Peter, her open palm rubbing nervously against the jacket that covered her arm. “I think.”

Looking quickly to the clock that hung on the nearest wall, Peter squinted his eyes harshly to make out the time. It was only a few more minutes until they’d need to leave, give or take what blur of numbers he could make out. Was that a four or an eight? He shook his head — it didn’t matter. If he wanted to say something, he’d need to say it now.

“I, uh, I don’t know if I’ve said it yet, but, uh…” Peter found himself tapping his fingers erratically on the surface of the table, barely able to hold eye contact with MJ despite being inches apart. “Thanks. For helping me with all this. You’re busy and everything and I don’t know you didn’t have to so...thanks. Means a lot.”

MJ nodded, a little too forcefully to look natural. “Yep. No problem. Least I could do...considering all you do.”

The mention of the unspoken was enough to make Peter’s stomach drop to his knees. He was ninety-nine percent sure that was the feeling overwhelming him, anyhow. It was different from the aching, cramping sensations he’d been battling all day long. If he had to name it, he’d say it was disappointment.

“That’s not why you hang around me, is it?” The question came out of his mouth before he could think it over. “Because of…?”

It was Peter’s turn to look around the library, the empty chairs around them giving false sense of security. There was no telling who was hiding in the walls of bookcases that surrounded them. The last thing he wanted to do was out himself by mistake.

Luckily, MJ didn’t need candor to understand. She gave her head one shake.

“I hung around you before I knew.”

Peter knitted his brows tightly together, his head cocking slightly to the side. “I thought you said you always knew.”

MJ shrugged. “That, too.”

A bead of sweat dripped down from the corner of his temple. Peter quickly brushed it away, clearing his throat to rid the itchy, dry sensation that made him want to cough. It was getting hard to breathe, suddenly too warm when not even a minute ago he’d been freezing. The temptation to remove his hoodie was overruled in the desperate attempt to not look like a creep in front of MJ.

He didn’t want to mess this up. He’d do anything he needed to not to mess this up.

“You know...I _ can _like you,” MJ added, noticeably keeping her chin low where he couldn’t see her eyes. “Maybe that’s why I hang around you. Just ‘cause...I like you. Don’t gotta be so hard on yourself.”

The heat was getting to be unbearable. Peter had to brush away more sweat from his hair, the feel of liquid soaking in his roots making him cringe. There was no way he didn’t look like a complete mess. He didn’t even sweat this much during gym class.

It took every ounce of effort he could manage not to heave in air. Suddenly, breathing wasn’t coming naturally. It forced his shoulders high and wheezed every time he exhaled.

Denial wasn’t possible anymore. Peter felt bad. Really, really, _ really _bad.

And he really, really, _ really _didn’t want to mess this up.

The image of Harry’s text message flashed across his eyes, vivid in memory. This was his chance — whatever was wrong with him could wait. This was his opportunity.

‘_Go for i__t. Life is short. _ _ ’ _

“I like you, too,” Peter’s voice squeaked in pitch. He quickly cleared his throat, a little too loudly in the quiet library. “A lot.”

His admission took a few seconds to settle between them, marinating in the moment with raw affection. Only once they soaked through did MJ finally lift her head. She went as far as to tuck the hair that covered her face behind her ears, showcasing the timid smile that began to pull at her lips.

“Well...maybe I like you too.” She leaned a little further over the table, all the papers scattered along the table long since forgotten. “A lot...too.”

MJ smelt calming. Like lavender, or vanilla, or possibly both. Peter wasn’t sure what he smelt like — sweat, probably, body order very likely. Hopefully not vomit, despite his multiple trips to the bathroom today. He leaned forward, just a centimeter more across the table. It was pure luck that whatever stench he was giving off hadn’t deterred her away.

Peter wasn’t sure if MJ matched his movements, if she was moving forward herself or if he was seeing double — triple, quadruple. He didn’t let the thought set him back. He refused to let himself get inside his own head, to let his nerves and anxiety ruin his chance.

Not this time.

Not when, for once, he felt good about something.

‘_Go for it, Parker.’_

Peter went in for a kiss.

His eyes were closed when his lips made contact with hers. It kicked off a dizzying effect, his head soaring away from his body with such lightheartedness that he could have melted into her. The taste of her chap stick and buttery softness of her lips was somehow the most real thing he’d felt in weeks — in months.

It made him feel normal.

Like, for once, everything was finally...okay.

_SMACK!_

The harsh blow across his cheek startled Peter back into his chair.

“What the fuck!” MJ’s eyes grew wide, her hand still mid air, open-palmed and reddening in the center.

Peter blinked, so fast his eyelids almost couldn’t keep up. Black dots circled around the library, dancing like tiny pieces of static. His eyes watered and burned but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t regain focus.

“I – what?” He went to lay his hand across his face, stopping halfway there. The tender sting that spread across his skin was nothing compared to the confusion that he felt. “Wait, huh?”

“You asshole!”

A chair squeaked across the tile floor, so harshly it sounded like nails on a chalkboard to Peter’s ears. Every sound intensified, his own heartbeat like a drum in his skull. He couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t see past the black dots floating in his vision —

He didn’t understand what had happened.

“Wait, hold on…” Peter fought for the air he needed to speak, the words caught in his throat amiss a heavy wave of panic. “I thought….I thought you liked me?”

By the time the black dots had dissipated and the blurring library formed shape again, Peter could see MJ standing from her seat. She hastily shoved books into her backpack, one after another, no care to any possible damage she was putting them through.

“Yeah, but…!” MJ quickly threw the strap of her bag over her shoulder. She blew hair away from her face, more strands falling down as she did. “That doesn’t give you permission to — I didn’t think — that wasn’t how I wanted —….get the fuck away!”

Peter barely had time to jump up from his chair. MJ was already storming away, fast strides taking her to the exit of the library.

“MJ, hold up —!”

Even with the distance between them, the middle finger she held up was clear as day.

“Don’t come near me, you dick!”

Peter scrambled for his belongings, frantic to get the loose papers and textbooks into his backpack. Pieces of his essay fluttered to the ground, landing softly on the spot underneath his chair and the table.

“Crap!” Peter gripped his hair almost hysterically. His breath was stuck in his chest as his head snapped up, unfocused eyes looking to the library exit where MJ could just barely be seen leaving.

He couldn’t let her leave like this. This wasn’t how he wanted things to go, this wasn’t what he expected.

This wasn’t…

He needed to talk to her.

“MJ!” Peter snatched the papers from the ground, stuffing them underneath his arms as he ran out. “Wait, hold up, MJ!”

The rubber of his tennis shoes squeaked on the laminate floor of the hallway as he came rushing out of the library.

Peter looked around, left and right, and then again.

MJ was gone.

“Shit!”

The halls were empty, school long since dismissed. He was the only one around, his call for her echoing against the lockers nearby.

She couldn’t have gone far — right? Peter dropped his backpack, a heavy _thud _landing at his feet. Maybe if he hurried, he could still catch her. He just needed to get his things together, needed a plan. Needed...something.

The papers underneath his arms were crinkled and crunched underneath his grip. Quickly, he bent to his knees, unzipping his bag to place them inside.

The red pen marks littering the pages stood out like a sore thumb. Peter sighed, one hand stuffing the papers in his bag, the other rubbing furiously at his forehead.

He just blew his chance at everything. At acing his history class, staying on the Decathlon team...anything he could have possibly had with MJ.

The bottom corner of one of the pages caught his attention on the way into his backpack. Peter furrowed his brows, looking at it closely. It was the red pen MJ had been using, the same one that circled, underlined, and noted the many things wrong with his essay.

But this was different from that. It was a picture, a crude doodle on an empty space towards the bottom of one of his pages.

It looked like him.

Peter eyed the paper carefully, goosebumps raising along his arms. Even as a sketch, he felt disturbed by his own image. Overly exaggerated bags were highlighted under his eyes, the sweat that perspired from his forehead poured down like rain. In place of his pupils, red ink was scribbled viciously until the white of the paper couldn’t be seen anymore.

It was like a drawing of a zombie.

Peter frowned. This was how she saw him?

He shook his head, stuffing the paper inside and zipping the bag closed. He needed to talk to her, definitely needed to apologize — Peter began to jog down the hall, heading towards the exit doors. Maybe if he just explained everything to her —

“Parker!”

Principal Morita’s voice was startling enough that Peter nearly fell to the floor at the sound. His legs almost collapsed underneath him, the force of a sudden halt making his knees buckle and waver.

“Glad I managed to catch you,” Principal Morita said, one hand pulling at the strap across his shoulder, adjusting the satchel bag that rested on his hip. “Follow me to my office. We need to talk.”

Peter’s entire body jolted in shock, the soles of his tennis shoes squeaking when they twisted on the tile. His jaw worked for a response as he whirled around, his throat opening and closing to speak words that never made it out of his mouth.

Crap.

Not now.

As quickly as he spun around, Peter craned his neck behind him, eyeing the exit doors to the school. The same doors MJ had just stormed out of. Not even a minute ago — barely a minute ago; he could still smell the outside air lingering in the halls, so fresh it was as if the doors had just opened. He could taste the scent of grass on his tongue.

He could still catch her.

_Yͅe̹͙̜̪ͬ̓͋ͤs̠̰͇͐̓͗_

He could still fix this.

_Yͅe̹͙̜̪ͬ̓͋ͤs̠̰͇͐̓͗_

He needed to go — now.

_G̪͉o̬̫̰.̤̰̩͙͈̲ ͖̟̰L̯̥̤̜̘̻̹ea̠̼͖̖̦̣̖v̜͈͕̮͎͖e̞̩̰͉͉ͅ.͙̱͖̺ ͈̩_

“I…” Peter stammered, looking back to Principal Morita with twitching, furrowed brows. “I can’t. I – I have some place I need to be, I need to – I’m sorry —”

Morita began to close the distance that stood between them, long strides nearing him closer to Peter.

“I think you’ll want to have this conversation. It’s about your Homecoming dance.” He nodded his head over to the side, to the corner of the hallway that he had just come from. “Let’s go, I promise to make it quick.”

Peter swallowed, hard, the dryness coating his throat painful to fight against. The hand that wasn’t clutching the strap to his backpack began to twitch incessantly, fingers dancing hysterically on the side of his leg, right where his phone sat in his pocket.

He could already feel the vibrations tearing across his skin — MJ could be messaging him, she could be trying to meet up with him, tell him where she went. They could still talk about this, right? He could still fix this?

Or she could be telling him to never speak with her again. That he royally screwed up, that there was no going back. That he’d lost one of his best friends forever.

His fingers stopped moving. A fist formed in its place.

_W̱͔͍e͔̜͓’̳̭̣͕̞̯̼l̰̘̫̞̪ḷ͇ ͇͍̪͚̘prot̺͚̮̙͔̰̬e̺̠̰̞c̠̞͈̘̠t̼ ̥͎̼̪̼͙y͕o̰͇̺̞͚̠ͅu_

“I — really can’t, Principal Morita.” Peter shook his head, growing more frantic by the millisecond. His heart was hammering painfully in his chest, skipping beats entirely. “I — I need to —”

“This isn’t a suggestion, Parker.” Morita’s expression hardened. He cocked his head to the side, the offending tone that echoed the hallways seemingly not matching the concerned look that fell across his face. “Don’t forget, you’re still under probation from last weeks incident.”

“I know!” Peter shot his head to the doors again, beads of sweat now pouring down his forehead. They dripped into his eyelashes and stole his focus, his blinks becoming more rapid and frenetic. “I just —”

“My office,” Morita insisted. “Let’s go.”

The sound of his dress shoes clicked against the tile floor, each step bringing him closer to Peter.

Almost instinctively, and without warning, Peter began to back away. Morita came to a sudden stop as he did.

There were exactly four lockers between them, a small amount compared to the dozen that lined the wall. Peter wasn’t sure why he counted, he wasn’t sure what his train of thought was beyond the obvious. He needed to slip away — needed out, _ now. _

Peter didn’t even know why he needed to leave anymore. A breath lodged in his throat, his hand squeezed the strap to his backpack even tighter. Nothing made sense, none of this made any sense. Faintness washed over him, a vertiginous sensation seeping deep in his skull.

What was going on?

Morita hadn’t taken another step towards him, keeping the bridge with growing worry. If Peter hadn’t thought he looked like MJ’s sketch before, the look Principal Morita gave him was enough to confirm the fact. There was simply no way he didn’t look as bad as he felt.

And with an instantaneous realization, Peter understood exactly why Principal Morita was staring at him the way he was.

This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t him.

Peter’s throat bobbed as he forced down a bout of sickness, his lips thin when pressed tightly against each other.

Maybe he should just go to the principal's office —

_Do̯͍̠̲̮̬̝n͓̭̱’ͅt ͉̹̭̱̮̝l̻̙̦͈̯et̥̪̰͓̳ ̲t̠͍̫̫ẖ͓̰͈̯e̘͍͇̦͚̰̳m ̫̦̭̼͇̖̙te̘͈ll ̩͚̖͇̰̰y̜o̤͇̗̜ͅu̱ͅ ̬̣͇̼wh̙̩͔̲at ̘̯͇̺̳͉̫t̙̗̮͇̜̻ͅo̰͓̮͈̬̬ do_

Peter shook his head. MJ was long gone. He’d crossed a line, she wasn’t going to talk to him again after that —

_L̮͍e̠͖͓a̱͖̩̲͕͉̠v̮̗̯͍͓̥e.̱̮͖̞ Noͅw..̯͚_

“Peter…” Morita took one step forward, stopping there. “Come to my office. We’re going to call someone, have them pick you up.”

The sound of Principal Morita’s voice drifted into Peter’s ears, but he couldn’t make sense of them. His head swam, too foggy to focus, too cloudy to comprehend what was going on.

Morita was still talking, Peter could see his lips move. It was as if his head was underwater, his ears drowning under the tension. Eyelids fluttered as he struggled to make sense of what was being said.

Maybe...maybe if he just called Mr. Stark.

Something was wrong.

This wasn’t right, this wasn’t like him —

“My office, Peter,” Morita said, muffled under the pressure of his head. “Follow me.”

_Th̷ẹy̷͙ ̸͚͍͇̜d̳̫̗̬͎͈o͇͔n̟̹̻̗’̸̜̬t͍̣͇ ̘̯̫̥̻͉c̡̥̯ont̡ro̗͔l͔͕̖̠ ̺̯ỵ͚̮̩o̞͇̜u̘̖̳͕.̯͚_

Principal Morita looked like he wanted to help.

Peter’s legs began to move without his consent. If he could’ve, he would have taken that offer in a heartbeat.

“I’m…” Peter gulped, moving a thought he didn’t have to give. “I’m sorry.”

A part of him screamed at himself for turning away, his feet already jogging down the hall without any effort on his behalf. His hand gripped the strap to his backpack, not even bothering to swing it over his shoulder as he started running to the doors. The fabric began to weaken underneath his hold, he could hear it start to rip.

“Peter!” Principal Morita called out, his voice booming in the hallway. “Don’t do this, Peter!”

_Th̷ẹy̷͙ ̸͚͍͇̜d̳̫̗̬͎͈o͇͔n̟̹̻̗’̸̜̬t͍̣͇ ̘̯̫̥̻͉c̡̥̯ont̡ro̗͔l͔͕̖̠ ̺̯ỵ͚̮̩o̞͇̜u̘̖̳͕.̯͚_

The exit wasn’t far away, and yet Peter’s lungs felt on fire as he ran — jogged, a weak attempt at a fast walk. His knees threatened to give out at any second, buckling and faltering with each pound of his footsteps. What started at the perfect pace quickly deteriorated into something weaker, his body unable to keep up with the urgency of his emotions.

He needed to leave. He needed to figure this out, he needed to…

He needed help.

_Wḛ wi̫͔l͇̮͔̠l̮̗͈̫̜ ͈̞̜̖̳̘̝h͍̬̹͈̩̤̰e͔͉̰̘l̹̱̯͔̳̟̪p̪͔̼ ͙̮̙͍͖͈̱yo͕̼̩u̞̗̱͍͎̟ͅ.̮̳̻ͅ_

Peter kept pushing through, sweat now rolling down his face in thick, heavy beads.

Morita didn’t let up. “I said come back, Parker!”

Peter stumbled as he turned around, just barely in reach of the exit doors.

“I’m sorry!” He threw his arm out, as if offering an apology that meant more than his words. “I —”

_Th̷ẹy̷͙ ̸͚͍͇̜d̳̫̗̬͎͈o͇͔n̟̹̻̗’̸̜̬t͍̣͇ ̘̯̫̥̻͉c̡̥̯ont̡ro̗͔l͔͕̖̠ ̺̯ỵ͚̮̩o̞͇̜u̘̖̳͕.̯͚_

A burning, fiery sensation spread across his skin, shooting down from his shoulder into the very nail-beds of his fingers.

Peter couldn’t hold back the sharp gasp that tore out of his mouth, his arm shaking with trembles that condemned his entire frame, stole his every muscle.

Blurry vision quickly dissipated, his eyes rolling back with a hard seize. Darkness bloomed, spreading a wing softly over his vision as the hallway began to swing sickeningly sideways.

It felt timeless, the feel of black-burning chemicals seeking out every last neuron in his system. Like a creeping poison. An endless, hot, stinging torment unfolded from the back of his head. Thorny pressure started from the bottom of his skull, pushing up until his very scalp felt as if a million tiny needles prodded from the inside.

** _WE̬ ̩͔͚͓C̡̱͎̤̯O̡͔̙̙͉̤̫̤NT̸͚RO̲͕̭̺L Y͚̙̻͇̹̗͘Ọ̘̪̱U͉̣͙̱͇.̛͈̲̦̦_**

Peter could feel the tendrils of bleeding sludge pour out from his pores, as if his own skeleton disarranged out of his skin and lunged across the room. It felt apart of him. One of him. Reaching out, moving, attacking.

He could hear the scream that followed. The crash, the breaking glass. The _ THUD _of two bodies hitting the floor, his knees throbbing to accompany it all.

The silence that sounded was deafening after the fact.

It was quiet. Only Peter’s labored breathing could be hard, his spine stiffening with resounding effect. Shakes twisted his body, ripped at it, had their way with it. The thrumming heartbeat that pounded in his head sifted through the hollow places of his core.

Darkness faded out, leaking into the corner of his eyes as his vision began to clear way. Slowly, he could make focus on the tile floor below him. He was on his knees, bones aching, his palms face-down on the ground. By the time he came too — really came to, felt in his body again, in _ control _again — Peter almost couldn’t will himself to look up.

Slowly, more slowly than Peter thought was physically possible, he raised his head as high as it could go. Eyes roamed the hallway with disoriented confusion, his breathing hitched and uneven as his flesh began to creep in shivering cycles.

“Oh, no…” Peter felt his eyes blow wide open, the blood in his veins turning to ice. “Oh, nonono..._ no _!”

His voice was tight, terrified. Something hard grabbed at his chest, strangling his lungs. A guttural sob got stuck in his throat, his bottom lip quivering nearly as hard as his body trembled.

Principal Morita’s body laid in a crumbled mess down the hall. Shattered glass littered along the floor, over-top his body, still sprinkling down from the broken trophy case that he’d made impact against.

Shakily, hastily, Peter got up off the ground. His breathing quickened as the understanding of what just happened sunk in, fear and horror mixing together into something entirely overwhelming.

He needed to call for help, he needed to do something, he needed to —

  
L̞̼͚͉e̗͖̻av̞e.̳̠ ̻̪̰̯̘̜

There wasn’t a second wasted between the time that Peter stood up and ran to the exit doors.

_We’̰̲̰ll̦ ̝ͅpr͎͎o̘͕̬t͔ec̜̤t̞͚ y̩ou.._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are SO close to the next act, you guys.
> 
> Up next: Tony decides to pay a little visit to the one and only Norman Osborn


	15. Slithered Here From Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was just thinking — and it's just a thought, not a big deal or anything, just a thought I had...but...is there any way we could, like...” Peter trailed off, unsure of how to word what should have been a really, super easy question. “I don’t know, maybe make this whole...Stark Internship thing look...real?”
> 
> “You don’t consider this to be real?” Tony asked, his arm gesturing widely to the workshop around them.
> 
> Peter made a face – the kind that scrunched up his cheeks and eyes, an odd mix of cringe and grimace. Offending Mr. Stark was exactly what he was worried he might do. A spike of electricity shot up his nerves; the last thing he wanted was to lose the time Tony gave him out of his incredibly busy day.
> 
> “No, no, like...I do. It’s real. Obviously.” Peter only realized he had stopped talking when Tony lifted his eyebrow higher in the air. He swallowed, hard. “But other people...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a HELL of a response to that last chapter! Everyone, all your excitement gets ME so excited and I love it so much! I'm just so happy, so so so so very harpy that despite how long this story is taking, all of you guys have stuck around for the journey. It means so much to me. I know 2020 has been crazy for us all, and I know my speed in updating has taken a hit, but I promise you that so long as ya'll are here, this journey will continued.
> 
> Because I am SO excited for what's to come. And even more excited for your reactions! 😆
> 
> Just a quick note -- I see that I left things a little too ambiguous with that Peter & MJ scene. It won't be a while until we touch that again (because other things gotta happen first, and you'll understand why when we get there) BUT I did want to clarify now that there was absolutely no sexual assault of any kind that played out. It was a kiss. Nothing more. MJ just didn't want a kiss yet, and that will be handled later. But yeah, no Venom assaulting. Sorry I had to clarify that, my writing should've done that itself, but with Venom taking over, things are really muddled for poor old Pete. And as such, his POV comes off the same way.
> 
> Also, fun nerd fact - Max Dillon is referenced in this chapter, our good 'ol Electro!
> 
> The ball doesn't have much further to roll, you guys. One more chapter and it all goes tumbling down hill.

“I can’t believe you still have technology like this lying around.” Steve gave his head a hard shake, arms folded so tightly over his chest that he could have been hugging himself. “After everything that happened with Dmitri —”

“Hey!” Tony barely looked over his shoulder, his glare tempered enough that Steve didn’t need to see it head-on to feel the heat. “Get your facts straight before you start wagging that patriotic finger in my face. This one is all SHIELD, give_ them _the glory.”

Steve bit his tongue, looking away only for the briefest of moments. Leaning against the nearest desk, he watched with stifled frustration as both Tony and Natasha sat on their own respective stools, directly across from each other, barely separated by a few feet. The workshop around them buzzed with idle technology, the lack of ongoing conversation creating a bottomless disquiet from the humming computers nearby.

Meticulously, Tony’s fingers worked on Natasha’s face, gently but securely pulling the thin, mesh veil along her skin. She sat patiently through the ordeal; hands in her lap, eyes and mouth closed. The flickering static emitting off the textured mask lit up the stress lines deepening along Tony’s face. If he hadn’t looked exhausted before, the toll of all that was taking place had definitely started to peak.

“Besides, you should be counting your lucky stars that we were able to snag this before the goons in R&D even noticed.” Tony reached down underneath Natasha’s jaw as he adjusted the device along her neck. Every pull that snagged in his grip highlighted the callouses on his fingers, the translucent mask flaring with unseen static electricity.

Clint walked by the two with a low hum staying in his throat.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

Tony rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, much appreciated, James Bond,” he muttered mirthlessly. “Your thievery is admired, I’m sure you’re a great role model for the younglings back on the ranch.”

Natasha resisted a smirk, a quick twitch pulling at her lips before she quickly let her face fall neutral. The slightest movement jarred the fragile sheet spread across her skin, bright flickers sparking up a storm that burned in her eyes.

“It’s not theft.” Steve placed one open-palm in the air, harsh and final. “We’re returning it. And I still don’t see the difference between this and the chameleon helmet you created, Tony.”

Pulling his hands back from Natasha’s face, Tony briefly looked over his work, eyeing it at all levels. Just as quickly, he leaned back in to make a few final adjustments, working the veil behind her ears and careful to avoid the red locks that got in the way.

“There’s a stupendous difference. Night and day, black and white. _My _design — still a technological wonder, unfortunately one put to rest only after getting into the wrong hands — projected holographic nanites that surrounded the individual’s entire infrastructure. Body, face, you name it. It was a whole package deal,” he dryly explained. “This is SHIELD’s Photostatic Veil, dated in comparison to the chameleon helmet, in major need of some tweaks and upgrades, if you ask me. It has holographic cells, creating a photostatic surface that can mimic the facial appearance —”

“Steve knows what it is.” Natasha brushed his fingers to the side so she could conform the final piece against her forehead. It stayed stuck there, a second skin that projected a difference across her features. A whole new appearance. “I’ve used it before. He just gets cranky when it comes to things he doesn’t understand.”

Steve leveled her a slighted look, weariness stealing any anger from his face.

She offered him a quick smile as she stood from her stool, the high-heels she normally never wore clicking on the ground when she turned to face the others.

“How do I look?”

Natasha held two hands underneath her chin, showcasing her new face. The static and flickers died down until ultimately, there was no telling what was fake and what was real. It blended immaculately onto her skin, the perfect facade hiding her true self.

Casually, and even more slowly, Clint approached her. His head tilted to the side, examining her closely.

“Like you. Only with a bigger nose.” Clint turned to Steve, brows knitted tightly together. “I get that we don’t want Osborn knowing that an Avenger is sneaking around his building. But are we sure she shouldn’t at least wear a wig?”

Tony held back a muffled grunt as he stood from his stool, knees protesting after sitting still for so long. Without a thought, the heel of his foot kicked at the chair, wheeling it behind him where it wouldn’t get in the way.

“Trust me,” he said, “Norman won’t be looking at her face.”

A beat passed. Clint’s nose turned up.

“Gross.”

Sliding glass doors to the workshop whirred open, the quiet hum of computers and wires embedded in the walls quickly muffled by the sound.

“Here it is,” Rhodey announced, walking in with quick, effortless confidence. “Straight from the boys over at the FBI. I have an old acquaintance who works in the Cyber Crime department, he owed me a few favors. Figured now was the best time as ever to cash in.”

Rhodey reached the middle of the room, his hand showcasing a small gadget held between his thumb and forefinger. Only the three standing nearby seemed interested; Steve still a good distance apart, watching and listening from where he stood across the room.

“Keep this on you, preferably under thin clothing to prevent any signal blocking. It’ll automatically hijack the SSL connection when you enter the building. Once you get close enough to their server room, it’ll transfer the data over to us. I’m not at liberty to say how, but encryption won’t be a problem. Anything and everything will be yours — you won’t even have to bat an eyelash.”

As suddenly as he appeared, Rhodey cocked an eyebrow high, looking Natasha up and down with bizarre confusion. The realization of her new appearance seemed to dawn on him a second too late, a ghost of a grin following suit.

“Especially not with a face like that…”

Natasha tucked the tiny device in the top pocket of her blouse.

“I’ll overlook the derogatory insult, seeing as you just gave us upper hand we needed.” She returned the smile, every bit not-Natasha as the disguise could offer her. “Thanks, Rhodey.”

There wasn’t any hesitation as Rhodey laid a firm hand on her shoulder, squeezing briefly before letting go. He drew in a deep breath as he turned to face the others, one arm gesturing uselessly in the air.

“You guys sure you don’t just wanna take the photos to him?” Rhodey looked towards Steve and Clint before ultimately locking eyes with Tony. “You have the _ ultimate _upper hand already with those pictures Pete took. What fight can Osborn really put up when handed solid, indisputable proof?”

Tony shook his head firmly, grabbing the gray blazer laying along a computer chair and swinging it around his back.

“This is Norman Osborn we’re talking about,” he needlessly said, pulling his arms through the jacket. It clashed with the casual polo he was wearing, but Tony didn’t care. It was an importune meeting for a reason; fashion would have to sit on the back burner. “Proof or not, I would never anticipate getting an honest answer out of his dirty lips. Look at how many subpoenas we had to throw at OsCorp’s front door just to get the _ inkling _of truth about their underground experiments.”

Rhodey shrugged. “We didn’t have photographic evidence then.”

Tony turned to face him, pulling down at his blazer to smooth out the wrinkles. “Photographic evidence would be as good as kindergartners recess drawing. The lawyers will say it’s doctored before we can even get through the lobby. Getting in with Osborn today is our one shot to answers — our _only _shot at answers. Might as well go all in while we’re there.”

Clint straightened his shoulders, still eyeing Natasha from head to toe, looking for any impractical flaws that may have been overlooked in her disguise. She stood patiently as he did, exhibiting the same amount of trust she had for him decades ago, unwavering even as the years passed by. If there was anything that made him think her guise wasn’t good enough, he’d be the first to speak up.

He turned to Tony, one eyebrow arched high. “Card up your sleeve while you deal him a bad hand?”

Tony shot a stern finger in his direction. “Exactly.”

The two were dressed to impressed, that much Rhodey noticed — outside of Natasha’s new face, that was. It was odd, seeing her red hair falling onto her shoulders with a face that didn’t match. Combined with the pencil skirt and black blouse, she really did look like a whole other person.

And while Tony had certainly seen better days with fancier suits, he still had the right of mind to change out of his grease-stained sweatpants from earlier in the morning into something that would easily get them into Osborn’s personal office.

Rhodey bit back a sigh, sparing Steve a silent glance as he did. The man stayed tucked away across the room, leaning quietly against one of the many computer desks. His lack of vocal participation hadn’t gone unnoticed, and judging by his stance, Rhodey wasn’t exactly sure how keen the solider was towards the situation at play.

Now that he thought about it, not even _ he _knew the details of what was about to take place.

“So what’s the grand plan, then?” Rhodey almost didn’t want to ask, but the question came out nonetheless. It was habit with Tony, one that wouldn’t die anytime soon.

Tony quickly checked his appearance in one of the nearest idle computer monitors, seemingly both satisfied and irked with the sight that greeted him. Having been unable to sleep after returning from Queen’s last night, and only having a few hours to throw together something that resembled _ ‘Professional Stark’, _he knew this was about as good as it would get.

He was fine with that. It wouldn’t be the first time he showed up to a CEO’s office looking less-than-his-best. And it sure as hell wasn’t like he wanted to impress Osborn in the first place.

“Despite being tasked with running a company all by herself, my wonderful, astonishing fiancé has managed to squeeze us into a three-fifteen appointment with Norman-the-sleazeball-Osborn.” Tony pointed a lax finger over to where Natasha stood. “I’ll sit and throw some bullshit with Osborn while my personal assistant here, Natalie Rushman, takes a few urgent phone calls outside.”

“I’ve already studied the layout of the building,” Natasha added, adjusting the gadget sitting in the pocket of her blouse. “I know exactly where the server room is kept, how to get there, and how many guards surround it at different shift intervals. So long as I can get within ten feet to the door leading inside, we’ll be good as golden.”

Clint noticeably tightened his jaw. “What about security? They’ll be escorting you everywhere you go. How do you plan to lead them astray?”

“I don’t,” Natasha simply answered, offering him a grin. “They’ll be too busy following around some pretty, dim-witted assistant to notice anything awry.”

Clint resisted the urge to laugh, a chuckle sounding in his chest and staying there. Natasha winked in his direction, bleeding out any tension and concern he may have been harboring.

Tony pushed past the two, gray blazer brushing up against them both.

“Red Sparrow over here will infiltrate the systems, get us every document they’ve decided to keep tucked and stashed away. When she’s done, she’ll come save me from what I guarantee will less than pleasant meeting with Norman.” Tony turned to her, his hand gesturing wildly in the air. “If everything is a-okay, you’ll say…”

Natasha raised her eyebrows. “You’ll be late for your four o’clock appointment.”

Tony snapped his fingers, satisfied.

“And if all has shot to hell —”

“I won’t be there to say anything.” Natasha lanced him a piercing look, narrowed eyes saying more than her words ever would.

Tony nodded curtly.

“Fair enough.”

It was a risky plan, that much he knew. OsCorp had about as much security and protocols in place as Stark Industries themselves, if not more. Tony couldn’t deny the possibility of something going wrong, of them getting caught red-handed illegally stealing information that didn’t belong to them.

If it came down to that, if life really was out to torture him in every way he felt imaginable, then Natasha getting the hell out of dodge was something Tony could live with. The Avenger’s had been digging at OsCorp's case for months now, he wasn’t ready to blow their cover yet. Not without some answers.

Sparing Not-Natasha a glance, Tony could feel the brick weights ease off his chest just a smidgen. If anyone could get in and out of there without getting caught, it was her. Of all things that were going to happen today, that was the one thing he had the most confidence in.

Now he just needed some confidence in the rest of his plan.

“You’ll keep an eye on Peter while we’re gone?” Tony turned his question to Clint, grabbing his cell off the nearest desk and quickly looking at the time. They needed to get going.

Clint folded his arms across his chest, biting back a sigh. “Yeah, because watching some high-schools live security feed is what I’ve always dreamed of doing on a Monday afternoon.”

Tony was a second away from lashing out, the bags under his eyes seemingly darkening as frustration coated every feature on his face.

Rhodey quickly stepped in, one hand on his shoulder to keep him grounded.

“Don’t stress it, man.” He squeezed his grip with reassurance. “It’s not even lunch time, how much trouble can the kid get into between now and when school’s let out?”

Tony managed a deep breath, pocketing his cell away in his blazer. He didn’t want to entertain the question with answers. Instead, he turned back to Clint, the archer noticeably softening despite his discontent with the role assigned.

“FRIDAY will automatically pull any suspicious footage off their records,” Tony explained. “But if you see anything that feels off, you’ll —”

“Tell you. Yeah, I got it, Tony.” Clint dropped his arms down to his side, pocketing his hands deep into his jean pockets. He stared down Tony with curiosity, a look of both concern and uncertainty reflecting in his eyes. “What I_ don’t_ get is what you plan to do with Norman while Nat hacks the computer files for answers. The man doesn’t exactly seem like the type for tea and biscuits.”

It was quiet for a long moment before Tony carefully spoke up.

“I have some things I’ve been wanting to get off my chest.” Tony’s voice grew hoarse, tired. Months of secretly fighting against a conglomerate had started to wear on him, and they weren’t even close to winning yet. It took everything he had to keep going. “Now’s a good time as ever for good ‘ol Normie to listen.”

The piercing hum bouncing off the walls of the room seemed to intensify, combining with both the electricity that ran off consoles and devices, and his racing heartbeat that sent a ringing through his eardrums. Tony straightened his blazer one last time, a deep sniff pushing back any anxiety that began to rise in his nerves.

He had meant it. This was their one shot. And Tony wasn’t about to blow it, not now, not that so much was at stake. Three weeks ago they had time, he could throw as many neglected subpoenas in OsCorp’s face as he wanted and know that tomorrow would still exist for another chance.

Now? Whatever dirty experiments they were running — even after SHIELD shut them down, even after the government warned them to stop — it had gotten to Peter.

They had gotten to his kid.

All Tony needed was those documents in hand, Oz Formula or not. After that, there’d be hell to pay.

“Steve?” Natasha’s voice broke through his thoughts, filling the otherwise quiet workshop. “You’ve been unusually quiet. Anything to add?”

Tony wasn’t the only one to look up at the solider. Still leaning against the desk, still with his arms folded tightly over his chest, Steve eyed them down, seemingly all at once. He held a beat, unsure of what to say to the group, if he should speak at all.

His exhaustion seemed as deep as Tony’s, though he carried a different weight on him than the other man. An added sense of struggled responsibility, not just for Peter, but for the whole team. It was palpable, felt from a distances away.

Tony didn’t even have a witty remark to toss back. Hell, a part of him was appreciative that Captain Goody-two-shoes was willing to roll with the punches of a plan he didn’t feel was morally right.

It spoke volumes to how desperate they were. How they all knew something was wrong.

Steve shifted on his feet, managing a lax finger in Natasha’s disguised face.

“We’re returning that mask when we’re done with it,” he finally spoke up. “It’s not theft. It’s borrowing.”

* * *

If there was one thing Tony knew the most about his reputation, it was the fact most people claimed he could own a room the moment he stepped foot inside. A power to his poise, a confidence that shook the ground he walked on.

Tony didn’t feel that way walking into OsCorp.

Something was unsettling about the building, about the cathedral ceilings, about the guards that escorted them to the elevators. Even on his way to the eighty-first floor — twelve floors short of the once Stark Tower, looming tall in the skyline of Manhattan — his gut twisted with an odd sense of strife.

He didn’t want to own any of these rooms. The walls that surrounded him left a sickening taste in his mouth, a nervous tick that twitched at his fingers. A constant reminder of the hell OsCorp and Osborn had put him through — and continued to do so.

The sooner he could get this over with, the better off he’d be.

And if afterward, an aircraft missile happened to drop on the building occupied only by Osborn himself...well, Tony would mourn the loss of technology destroyed in the process and little else.

The elevator doors chimed open on the highest floor of the building. Two guards followed Natasha out, the sound of her high-heels barely heard over the enthusiastic flirting directed at the guard on her left. A heavy, downright authentic-sounding french accent coated her tongue and even the feathery laugh that came from her lipstick-stained lips.

Tony adjusted the sleeves to his blazer; he had to give her credit for going all out on the ruse. If it weren’t for the red locks pulled back tightly into a bun, he’d forget it was even Natasha that had come along with him.

His distraction also played a part in that, of course, as the guards walked them closer to the door at the end of the hallway. One that was simply labeled,

‘_CEO Osborn’ _

If he didn’t know better, Tony could have sworn his sight began to filter red, a deep crimson bleeding into eyes. It wasn’t until the very moment that the guard opened the door that he regained focus, saw the heat bleed away at the edges.

Even then, the image of the door tag was burned in his retinas, still there when he looked away, still there when he blinked. No different than the nightmares that plagued his sleep.

Tony didn’t fail to see the irony in that.

“Ah, Mr. Stark!”

The professional, feminine voice grounded him back to reality. He turned his attention to the far left of the room, where a dirty-blond haired lady greeted them, sitting at a desk surrounded by office supplies.

“Please, come on in.” She stood from her chair, waving them inside. Overgrown plants practically lined the walls behind her, and her blouse brushed up against a few leaves as she straightened her skirt. “It’s a pleasure to see you. Mr. Osborn has been eagerly awaiting your meeting all afternoon.”

Tony managed a deep breath in, his shoulders lifting high, his chest heaving upwards. With all the energy he could muster, he plastered a toothy grin across his face. It felt as fake as knew Natasha’s accent had been.

“I’m sure he has been,” Tony mentioned succinctly, biting his tongue just enough to keep the sound of distaste from leaking into his tone. His sneakers, paired oddly with his suit, squeaked against the mosaic flooring of the receptionist area. “While I have no doubt Ms. Potts already expressed her gratitude, I’d like to thank you again for getting me on his books so quickly. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy feat to squeeze me into his busy schedule.”

The middle-aged woman waved him off with a cordial smile. “Oh, of course, she explained everything to me. Really, it’s no trouble at all. Especially with such a large-sized donation to the OsCorp internship program. Your generosity is truly appreciated, Mr. Stark.”

Tony froze. A finger made its way into his ear, unsure if he heard her correctly.

“That…” He managed another step further into the room, his movements as slow as his words. “Is...indeed...why I am here.”

It took every ounce of self control to keep the grin stretched across his lips, muscles he didn’t even know he had aching at the pressure to drop the front faster than he could spew out a million different curse words. And now more than ever did he want to spit a rainbow of colorful terms to anyone in earshot of hearing him.

He shouldn’t be surprised. In a way, Tony wasn’t. Money talked, after all, and Pepper Potts knew that better than anyone in this world. And sure, his company and his own bank account had plenty to go around, large quadruple digits merely chump change at the end of the day.

But still.

A donation to OsCorp?

Tony could feel his nails digging into the soft tissue of his inner palms, the disgust settling deep into the marrow of his bones.

At the same time, Natasha discreetly brushed by him, the heel of her stilettos kicking inconspicuously yet painfully at his ankle.

Tony hissed, covering up the sound with a weak cough.

Hint received.

“I’m sorry,” he cleared his throat, pointing to the door on their right. “I’m on a tight schedule, is he —?”

“Of course!” She leaned forward, one finger pressing on the intercom system that sat neatly on her desk. It rang with a shrill buzz before clearing way for her to speak. “Mr. Osborn? Mr. Stark is here to see you now.”

There was a pause before another voice came through.

“_Thank you, _ _ Cynthia. Send him in.” _

The dirty-blond haired assistant — Cynthia, smiled as she reached for a different button on the surface of her desk. It chimed with a shrill ring, no different than the intercom system, and opened access to the door on the other side of the room. One guard walked in front of Tony while two stayed behind Natasha, their attentiveness excessive, yet somehow expected.

Tony barely got three feet to the door before turning to Cynthia, fake smile beginning to twitch.

“Exactly how much did I donate again?”

Quickly, Natasha cut forward, blocking the secretary from answering.

“Let us go,” she insisted, french accent filling the otherwise quiet room. One hand settled firmly on Tony’s forearm, pushing him forward. “Busy man waiting. Come come.”

Her eyes didn’t match the pleasantness of her tone, the look she gave Tony failing to go unnoticed. Even with her natural features hidden behind the disguise of the photostatic veil, the traces of desperation could be seen through the lines of admonishment on her expression — _don’t screw this up._

It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a demand. Every bit Natasha as he’d ever seen her before, different face or not.

Tony didn’t need the reminder. Not with all that was at stake.

But he’d take it, nonetheless.

“You bet my ass that check is bouncing,” he found himself muttering under his breath.

At the same time, the guard in front of him swung open the door to the office.

Tony wasn’t too sure what exactly he’d been expecting, if he had been expecting anything at all. To his knowledge, he had never met with Osborn one on one, privately. He had never _ wanted _ to . They had exchanged handshakes and false pleasantries at conventions, perhaps public attendances — his time in the corporate life had a tendency to blur together into an incoherent mess of _ ‘that was boring, what’s next?’ _

But all things considered, Tony was positive he had never stepped foot inside Osborn’s personal office before.

The blatant contrast was what startled his eyes, a difference so broad that it almost didn’t seem real. The harsh silver, whites, and blues of the OsCorp building weren’t present with the modest sized office ahead — no, rather the opposite.

There was mahogany wood covering the walls, the bookcases, the desk against the center wall. Deep, rich colored tones accompanied the smell of leather and cedar, and there was a hint of strong alcohol still lingering somewhere in the air. Scotch, if Tony’s nose detected it correctly. The open-lid decanter backed that assumption.

It reminded him too much of Howard’s personal space. Traditional, dated. Musty and old-fashioned. Tony stepped inside, nodding a thanks to the guard for keeping the door open. With decor like this, it was hard to believe Osborn was in the same age bracket as Tony.

Speaking of the devil — in more ways than one — Tony locked eyes on the man of the hour, at his desk against the far end of the room.

Norman didn’t bother to lift his head, focused intently on the tablet in his hands.

“Stark,” he dryly greeted, no louder than the sound Natasha’s heels made as she entered the office. The glow from the tablet’s screen highlighted the wrinkles and stress lines engraved deep into his skin, an unflattering light in an otherwise dark room. “Should I invite you to take a seat, or do you think this meeting will be brief?”

Tony turned his back to the desk, stuffing his hands deep into his blazer pockets, casually strolling in without further invitation. He occupied himself by taking in the smaller details of the office — the floor to ceiling bookcases, the collection of fountain pens put neatly on display; he held the tip of his finger against antique globe nearby and spun it for amusement.

Anything to keep his eyes off Osborn.

“Should let some sunshine in here,” Tony mentioned in lieu of answering, looking towards the large yet covered windows of the room. Heavy, vintage curtains were drawn on them on, barely a creak of light sneaking in through the corners. “Vitamin D is good for your mood.”

Natasha hummed low in her throat, taking a place quietly against the door frame of the office. Her hands were clasped in front of herself, no doubt already having thought of five different ways to discreetly rid a body and any fingerprints left behind.

It was a disturbing comfort for Tony, knowing she held the same disdain for the man as he did. That if given the chance, they’d both serve him the punishment that was long overdue for the hell he’d put them through.

At the same time, he knew — and so did she — that they had one opportunity for this. One chance to get it right.

Tony wasn’t about to blow that in favor of giving Osborn the black eye he deserved.

“I’m not sure if my assistant made you aware,” Norman failed to hold back a sigh, the sound mixed with the opening of a drawer to his desk where he put the tablet away, “but I do have other meetings planned in my agenda today. Ones that were booked properly, with advance notice.”

Tony barely paid him any mind, peaking through the weighted curtains to catch a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline from outside.

“Mhm. A beaut.” Tony offered him a brief glance, drawing the curtain closed but pointing a finger towards it at the same time. “You just don’t get that view upstate. One of a kind, this city is. Nothing like it.”

Norman kept his gaze straight-on, never looking Tony’s way, going so far as to intentionally clear his throat with growing impatience. “My time today is limited, so if there’s something you’d like to discuss with me —”

The shrill ring of a cell phone interrupted him, catching him off guard. Even Tony had to admit that the noise was humorously loud, especially contained in such a small space.

Norman placed two firm fingers to his temple, eyes squeezing shut as the sound blasted through his office. Tony knew that look from a hundred miles away — a migraine. A pretty bad one, from how it appeared.

“I...as you say, apologize.” Natasha clumsily reached into her purse, finding and clutching onto her cell phone with a blooming tint of pink covering her cheeks. “I must take this phone call.”

Noticeably aggravated, Norman waved a hand in her direction, keeping his head low as he rubbed gingerly at his forehead.

“That’s not a problem, thank you.” The words didn’t seem to match his gruff tone, his fist gripping tighter with each click her heels made leading out of the office.

Tony watched discreetly from his place at the window, his fingers playing idly with the tassels of the curtain. Natasha closed the door on her way out — _ Natalie _ _ , _he should say; Tony was almost disappointed he didn’t get to use that throwback while she was here. The guards followed her out, leaving just the two men in the room.

Clucking his tongue, Tony made his way to the bookcases lining the walls, unable to deny the fact that the open decanter of scotch was smelling better by the second. The edge he felt was getting sharper, and from the look of it, the feeling was mutual.

Now he was starting to remember just how unpleasant those brief meetings at conventions always were, the forced handshakes and fake smiles for the cameras. Osborn had always been scum to him, long before these inhumane experiments ever came to the surface.

Scanning the bookcases, Tony plucked out the first title that caught his eye, grabbing the book by its spine and pulling it out from its cramped spot in-between numerous other collections.

“_The Art of War. _” Tony flipped the book over to its back cover, his index finger trailing down the printed design. It was a limited copy edition, cloth-bound with a dust-jacket, kept in pristine condition. “Hm. Have a lot of memories with this one.”

Leaning over his desk, Norman poured himself a modest glass of amber-tinted scotch, barely managing a passing glance to Tony as he did. His disinterest didn’t keep the man at bay; rather, he found himself walking closer to the desk Norman sat at. His eyes never wandered from the book in hand.

“Not long after the folks passed, Obie made it mandatory to read this puppy front and back, five times over.” Tony cracked the book open, shuffling through it without much thought. The smell of old ink and dry, dated pages was more potent than the cedar and leather encompassing the office. “Had me studying it before I could even consider dipping my toes in the corporate world. Pretty sure I can still quote parts in my sleep.”

As quickly as he opened the book, he closed it shut.

“Let’s see…” Tony’s fingers tapped ceaselessly on the hardcover, his eyes looking far-off in thought. “The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent. Only once knowing both your strengths and weaknesses, as well as those of your adversary, can you begin to form a strategic plan.”

Norman moved to take a sip from the mountain glass in his hand, eyes meeting Tony’s squarely, green irises shrouded in the dim light.

“If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. Momentum is the life force of any conflict. When momentum is on your side, you have the advantage.” Norman set the glass down on the surface of the desk, condensation leaking onto the mahogany wood. “Sun Tzu was a wise man, a military strategist ahead of his time.”

Tony shrugged, chucking the book onto Norman’s desk, taking a seat in the empty chair on his opposite end.

“I tossed my copy,” he flippantly said, brushing some non-existent lint from his suit jacket. “Got tired of looking at it.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Norman drawled out, managing the slightest shake to his head. He placed both hands in his lap, casually and loosely folding them together. “Are you aware that your significant other paid your way in to see me today, Stark?”

Tony was sure the verbal reminder had been said with a sting, some kind of subdued implication for him to feel embarrassment by, going so far as to reach for emasculation. He refused to let it crawl underneath his skin, opting instead to simply nod his head.

“So I have been informed, yes.”

Norman met his gaze with a straight face, unamused and impassive.

“What do you want?”

Tony could have laughed; had honesty been something he intended to rely on, there still wouldn’t be enough time in his day to go down that road. Not even the riches in both their bank accounts could buy what he wanted, their pockets deep in stocks and market exchanges not nearing close enough to provide the peace of mind and security he desperately fought for.

Leaning back casually in the chair, Tony lifted both his hands in an open gesture, plastering a press-winning smile over his face.

“A lot of things,” he started. “World peace would be a great. End to all poverty. No kid hungry, no kid left behind.” Tony’s face fell flat, the facade beginning to weaken at the fringes. “A tête-à-tête works, too. Heart-to-heart, one-on-one. You, me — none of those pesky lawyers we keep overpaying to do our dirty work. Just a good old parley between like minded individual’s.”

Norman arched an eyebrow high into his hairline, his hardened gaze unwavering on the man sitting across from him.

The beat that followed felt toxic, inundated with palpable tension. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d say the air in the room had gone stale, stiff and thick solely from the negative energy stemming between them.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss ongoing lawsuits with you,” Norman finally responded, every bit as calm as Tony expected. “If that’s the only reason you came here, I hate to disappoint.”

“No lawsuits, last I checked,” Tony countered innocently. “No convictions that I’m even aware of. I mean, hell, you know how the Senate Armed Services Committee can be — always keeping themselves busy, soaking up those taxpayer dollars. They go after my Iron Man suits, they go after you with those experiments —”

“This isn’t about my experiments,” Norman cut in, professionally laced tone sharper than a knife. “It’s about your ridiculous claims, ones that you keep taking my company to court for. And you’ll have to pardon my forbearance when it comes to accusations that I can’t entertain. I have much more important things to do in my day than defend myself against such absurd allegations.”

Tony gave an exaggerated shrug. “Are they absurd, though? Can anything be considered absurd now that aliens have attacked New York and Gods have roamed the streets of New Mexico?”

Norman cocked his head to the side, failing to emulate the same grin that twitched at Tony’s mouth.

“Your case on OsCorp continues to be dismissed by the courts based on the grounds that you don’t have proof. It will never be upheld by a judge based solely on your conspiracy theories.” His words were seamless, practiced. Downright methodical. “Quite frankly, the longer you extend this feud, the sooner the public will begin to speculate that OsCorp is a threat to Stark Industries. Is that really a look you want for your company?”

“I have proof,” Tony forced through his teeth. The sting that he’d been keeping at bay started to burn in his chest, germinating with each passing second. “I just can’t use it.”

“Then that isn’t proof,” Norman rebutted, managing to pull of the most contrite look Tony had possibly ever seen. It didn’t look well on him, stretching the crows-feet over his eyes and adding years to his face. “It’s heresay.”

Tony shouldn’t have been surprised by his blatant denial. In a way, he wasn’t. But it didn’t stop his jaw from tightening, or his hand from clenching tightly into a fist.

Despite everything, Tony hadn’t been prepared for just how difficult it’d be to bench the searing hate that congealed in his veins. How challenging it was to sit quietly, play dumb despite all he knew. All he experienced first-hand.

“You know,” he cleared his throat, feigning casual conversation. “There’s a lot about the inner workings of my career you could never familiarize yourself with. SHIELD, the company I’m contracted out to work for —”

“Work for?” Norman tsked, reclining against his plush chair and staring over the expanse of the mahogany desk at Tony. “Is that what you call your superhero vigilantism?”

Tony chose to ignore that statement.

“They have strict security clearance,” he continued on as if uninterrupted. “Information I know doesn’t get shared with the public, not unless I want to wake up in bed with a horses head next to my pillow. Doesn’t mean I don’t know things. Who they’ve gone after, who they’ve shut down in the past…”

As Norman reclined back, Tony leaned forward, his elbows pressing firmly on his knees.

“What sort of...surreptitious buildings floated in the pacific ocean…”

An uninvited friction washed across the room, belligerent in spite of the silence that fell between the two men.

Tony savored the whisper of surprise that crossed over Norman’s face. It was almost nonexistent — a twitch of his cheekbones, a look in his eyes — blink and it was gone.

But Tony saw it.

He relished in it.

“Five months ago one of your experiments got loose and nearly destroyed the Collar City Bridge,” Tony reminded him. He mimicked Norman’s position, leaning back in his chair, flexing and then folding his hands into his lap. “You paid the city hush money to pretend it never happened. I know it did. I was there, I cleaned up your mess. And I know you’ve been doing worse than that rock android.”

As much as it pained him to admit, Tony and Norman had one thing in common — they were born in the corporate world, taught how to bullshit the same day they were taught how to walk.

So it was no surprise to see Norman appear indifferent, turning a blind eye as if he knew nothing more.

“How so?” he casually asked, reaching for his glass of whiskey.

A mirthless laugh almost broke free of Tony’s throat, managing instead to stay tightly restricted between two pursed lips, clamped shut with brewing anger. He watched wordlessly as Norman took a sip of the amber drink, his eyes never leaving Tony’s, not even as the glass returned to the surface of his desk.

Tony popped his lips, the sound echoing throughout the office. “No one finds it coincidental that a teleporting magician appeared in the same week?”

Norman smirked. Just a little. Just enough.

“And gone the next,” he regarded Tony evenly. “There were no ties with that incident and OsCorp.”

It was the tone of deceptive innocence that got to Tony, so immaculately perfected that it could fool anyone’s ears, surely pass any lie detector, win over any judge. Tony imagined that had it not been for the hell they’d been through earlier in the year, Norman’s act of virtue might have even instilled some doubt in his accusations.

But there weren’t accusations to have. Not anymore. They knew the truth — Tony knew the truth. The truth was nightmares that woke him up at three a.m. Panic attacks he could barely stave off at the smell of salt water and ocean life. The endless reminders of sleepless nights in his compound’s medical bay, praying relentlessly to a God he didn’t believe in at the bedside of a kid too young to experience the trauma he’d been put through.

He didn’t need to hear the truth directly from the fool’s mouth to feel vindicated.

He just needed to buy the time until he had his proof.

“Hm. So you claim,” Tony said, his voice still calm, still leveled. They could both play the game of bullshitting some professional nonsense. “Just as you claimed that your numerous east-coast research facilities were all up to code and legally abiding. Yet the case of one Max Dillon, circa 2008, might see things differently.”

Norman hadn’t looked away from Tony, not even as his fingers began to dance across the plush leather armrest of his chair.

Tony stared right back into his eyes, refusing to be intimidated.

“Remember him?” Tony flippantly waved a hand, dismissing a response. “Doubtful that you do. He was just another college student, Montclair State University, too desperate for a couple bucks to know what participating in your underpaid studies would do to him.”

Tony leaned in, just an inch, the soft tapping of Norman’s fingers audible in the quiet space between them.

“Amazing how an incident that put a nineteen-year-old boy into a coma brought on by high-voltage electrical shock could just be...tossed out of court like some suburban soccer mom suing their neighbor for leaving Christmas decorations up past New Years.” His voice grew harder, his need to remain reserved slipping between the cracks where his emotion began to surface. “But you claimed — sorry, let me rephrase that — you _ ‘claimed’ _that your study participants were subjected to the highest level of care and consideration in your faculties. Just as you claim now that you’ve had nothing to do with the Collar City Bridge incident. Or the magician in Times Square. Or the revived, modified Chitarui remains that attacked Brooklyn.”

Tony said nothing for a moment; he wasn’t sure if it was to add suspense to his lingering words, or to control the growing pit that started to claw its way into his throat. He could feel his lip twitch, the memories all too vivid, too personal. Close enough to his chest that he was sure each hammering beat of his heart kept them alive and present in his mind.

Norman stared at him, face so expressionless it was as if he knew nothing of the pain he’d cause Tony. Or worse, simply didn’t care.

“Among other events I can’t list, of course,” Tony finally added, managing a nonchalant shrug that took more effort than it appeared. “But like I said...security clearance. Not sure if I’d be able to get horses blood out of Egyptian Cotton bedsheets. And I would rather not have to try.”

The false image of calm and collected pervading every fiber of Norman’s persona hadn’t taken a hit. His fingers finally stopped moving across the armrest, his hands settling on the smooth surface of his desk not far from where the mountain glass sat, condensation still leaking onto the wood below it.

“And it would be ill-advised to discuss anything further without a lawyer present,” Norman pressed. “That is, so long as you continue to throw subpoenas on my desk every other week.”

A full blown grin pulled tightly at Tony’s cheeks, the phony act coming back just as quickly as it left.

“Hey, it’d stop if I got my answers.”

The laugh that came from Norman was downright unsettling, surprising at the very least. Tony arched an eyebrow high, watching with disturbed interest as Norman picked up the glass from his desk and shook his head, little laughs rattling his chest.

Tony narrowed his eyes, noticing how his muscles tensed at every low chuckle that escaped Norman’s mouth. He’d heard a lot of sinister sounds in his life. Somehow, this one felt the worse.

Norman took a sip of scotch, and for a moment, neither of them said anything.

“You know who _does _have a tie to those incidents you speak of, Stark?” He returned his gaze to Tony, openly gesturing the glass in his direction. “Queen’s local Spider-man.”

Norman eyed Tony intently. There was no missing the glint in his eye, not even in the dim lighting of the darkened office.

“He was there for them all,” Norman spoke casually, as if their conversation hadn’t took a coarse, abrupt turn. Like they were still throwing banter back and forth on political arguments and legal proceeding disagreements, like the mention of the red and blue clad vigilante was nothing more than an insouciant comment in an otherwise petty discussion.

Tony fought to appear as if that was the case, forcing himself to hide any shred of emotion that would say otherwise.

“I’m not here to discuss Avenger’s business with you,” Tony curtly said, his pulse quickly beginning to thump erratically under his skin.

Norman arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware that Spider-man was an Avenger now.”

Just like that, a burning feeling settled deep in Tony’s chest, a sharp needle that dug deep into his core. It wasn’t until the sensation became overpowering that he realized he’d stopped breathing all together, his test of patience pushed to the absolute limits.

He flexed his hands, his mouth setting in grim line.

“He’s not.”

Norman moved to raise both his eyebrows, and the glass of whiskey to the tips of his lips.

“But I _ do _see Iron Man with him...often.” A sip. A swallow. Norman swirled the liquid in the glass, watching it swish around the edges. “An enigma, if I do say so myself.”

Tony should have expected such a low blow. The public wasn’t oblivious to the connection he had with Spider-man, after all. Not since spring, not since the rock-android incident on the Collar City Bridge. He had unintentionally outed Spider-man as an ally of his, more than an acquaintance — the frequent visits Iron Man made to Queen’s were too coincidental to brush aside. Tony knew that. He wasn’t naive, he knew full well how the media ate up his superhero business like there was no tomorrow.

But still. To bring him up now, to drag Spider-man into their conversation unwarranted, with no cause, no reason —

The implications were clear as day.

Tony’s eyes hardened. The rest of him managed to look flawlessly oblivious.

“What can I say?” He spread his arms out wide, slapping on a smile that went ear-to-ear. “Hard to turn down a friendly face who just wants to help his neighborhood.”

Norman leaned back in his chair, hand still holding his glass, resting it somewhere beneath his chest where the dark emerald tie laid against the harsh contrast of his white button down.

“Neighborhoods have always been beneath you, Stark,” he said, searching Tony’s eyes for something that neither of them could distinguish. “What changed?”

Tony was sure the words were meant as a challenge. A goading, leading question designed to trick him, trip him up, admit something that would only serve Norman’s interest and no one else’s.

“I started giving a damn.” Tony ground the words from his lips. “You should try doing the same.”

If Norman was disappointed by the answer, he surely didn’t let it show. Head dipped low, chin on his chest, he again swirled the liquid in the mountain glass. Only the thin slivers of sunlight peeking through the heavy drawn curtains gave way to the expression on his face, and Tony had to squint to notice if there had even been a change that took place.

He remained impassive, imperturbable through it all.

“You’ve always relied on contingencies in your business. A destined trait from someone who took over a corporation at such a young age, I suppose,” Norman went on to say, infuriatingly stoic. “But chance won’t help you with whatever you’re trying to put OsCorp through. Whatever information you think you have in that intellect of yours...it won’t do you any good at the end of the day. You’ve become nothing more than the boy who cried wolf, the thorn in the side of our judicial system, wasting time of those who could be serving our public better.”

Leaning forward, Norman set the glass back on the desk, far off to the corner where he couldn’t easily grab ahold of it again. Tony’s eyes briefly glanced in the direction; the amber liquid was all but gone, a mere trace of residue left in the bottom.

“So, I ask again…” Norman furrowed his brows, hesitating where he was before reclining back in the chair. “Why are you here?”

Tony raised his eyes to meet Norman’s burrowing stare, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

“For the kids,” he boasted simply. “Who are we without them, am I right?”

Norman huffed a slight, dry chuckle, giving the smallest nods along the way.

“Ah, yes, the OsCorp Internship Program,” he preened, a crease between his eyes telling Tony he hadn’t fully fallen for the set-up. Still, he continued on. “You know, my son Harrison is second lead to running that program.”

Tony adjusted himself in his seat, hoping the movement hid the eye-roll he was unable to stop himself from giving.

“I’m sure you’re very proud,” he acknowledged flatly.

Norman nodded, eyes settling, skin pulling tight in a few places.

“I recently became acquainted with an old friend of his,” he began to say, the pause that followed heavier than the stare he proceeded to give. “I think you know him — Peter Parker?”

The sound of the name assaulted Tony like a thousand pounds of shrapnel blasting through his chest cavity, hitting him harder than a bomb blowing through the fragile windows of an undersea bunker. He could feel the blood rush out from his face, his skin growing cold, his heart losing rhythm.

It was too much not to let Norman on, to not shoot glaring daggers his way, let him know that even _ speaking _that name was a cardinal sin that could never be forgiven.

If his facade faltered in the second that passed, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

“The name is familiar, yes.” His jaw tightened threateningly, a sound akin to a growl nearly escaping his throat.

Norman’s lips twisted into a small smile. Tony fought the urge to punch it right off his face.

“_Very _intelligent young man. Guided by the right hands, he could do wonders. Take this company right underneath me some day, assuming my son doesn’t do it first.” Norman’s tone was enough to have Tony grinding his teeth — lighthearted, interested, fascinated. Thrilled. He looked at Tony, really looked at him, hiding nothing beneath his features. “I tried getting him enrolled in the OsCorp Internship, but he unfortunately declined.”

“Sorry to break your heart,” Tony’s voice dipped dangerously low, raw and strained despite his best efforts. “He’s already in one.”

Tony made a face, something he was sure looked less impressionable than what he wanted. It was hard to stay neutral in the conversation. Less than six hours ago he discovered Peter’s impromptu, unapproved trip to OsCorp had resulted in something happening that could very well be poisoning him — or worse.

Now, in the same day, he managed to find out that Norman himself had made contact with the kid.

His kid.

Who, when all this was said and done with, would be getting a _long _lecture about hiding things from others. Like having a powwow with the man responsible for nearly killing them both, on multiple occasions.

Tony’s eyes briefly flitted away, a curse sitting on the tip of his tongue. He should’ve done more when he got that alert of Peter’s location in OsCorp. He knew then that trouble was afoot — he should’ve listened to his instincts. He should’ve done more.

“Mhm-hm.” Norman’s hum cut through the stifling silence. “I’m aware of his extra curricular activities. I looked into it — the Stark Internship.” He raised a single eyebrow. “Doesn’t exist.”

The words rang through the office like reverberating steel, harsh, frigid, striking a cord where it wasn’t wanted.

Things that had previously not added up in his calculations were suddenly growing crystal clear to Tony, shinier than the near-empty glass of alcohol that sat discarded across from him.

“_But other people…” _

Peter hadn’t meant the Thompson kid at school.

He didn’t want that proof for himself.

Tony felt a sinking pit grow deep in his gut, threatening to swallow him whole. Realization combined with hopeless understanding tore into his skin like a ravenous, feral beast, and his spine stiffened, a steel knife cutting straight into his windpipe.

Whatever Peter was keeping from him, whatever he was keeping secret — it was beyond them all at this point.

Tony could only hope that there wasn’t more he was hiding.

Norman fiddled with the cuffs to his white button down, pushing them up his forearms. “Now, I don’t take Mr. Parker for a liar, seems like an honest young boy, has the straps on his boots up well. But you, on the other hand —”

“It exists,” Tony bit back vehemently, the words coming without his bidding.

Norman leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk between them, moving himself as close into Tony’s space as he possibly could.

“Then the question remains to be…” His head cocked to the side, and his eyes narrowed sharply. “In what capacity?”

Tony met his eyes head-on, not by choice, rather by sheer force of will. He refused to look away, refused to plant any validation to the implication laid out in front of him.

Yet it was blunt. Unequivocal, unmistakable.

Suddenly, Tony felt like he was drowning, caught under water, trapped in a wave he couldn’t escape. His ears rushed and popped, his head screamed under the tightening pressure. It was hard to even breathe, a simple inhale catching in his chest and staying there. Right where Norman sat, leaning over his desk, the first expression he’d seen on the man all afternoon finally catching the little bit of sunlight creeping in through the curtains.

He was smug.

And Tony had a gut-wrenching feeling on why.

Three gentle knocks from behind weren’t nearly enough to break their stare, so intense neither dared to blink. As if looking away might say what neither of them dared to speak out loud.

“Mr. Stark?” Natasha took no more than a step forward inside the office, lingering in the doorway with Tony’s back facing hers. “We must be going. You will be late for your four o’clock appointment.”

Tony didn’t acknowledge her — couldn’t acknowledge her, unable to tear his eyes away from Norman, terrified that one blink would collapse his entire world, send everything into shambles.

From the way Norman looked at him, it wasn’t far from the truth.

“Mr. Stark?” Natasha repeated, forced cordiality lacing her voice.

Tony stood from his seat, his movements harsh and mechanical, his eyes never leaving Norman’s.

“Right,” he managed, his tone cold, empty. “We’re leaving.”

With a smile that was all lip and no teeth, Norman gave a curt nod of his head, looking satisfied as he relaxed back into his chair.

“I apologize if today did not provide the mea culpa you were anticipating,” Norman pointed out, stopping Tony short of departing through the door. “Perhaps, though, I can still offer some words of advice before you leave.”

Tony came to a halt, leaning back on his heels in a moment of hesitation. He refused to turn around, his back facing the man, the fact he was still standing in the office the only sign he was willing to hear what had to come next.

Norman shifted his attention elsewhere, slowly rolling down the cuffs to his sleeves, taking his time as his fingers buttoned the cusps around his wrists.

“Protect your investments, Stark,” he simply said, looking up just as Tony craned his head over his shoulder. “Never know...I might decide you’re undeserving of them.”

A moment of silence dragged out.

Tony steered his anger as quickly as it surfaced, and the rest of the emotions threatening to boil over were quickly stuffed deep down where he couldn’t access them.

Instead, he gave Norman a once-over, quirking an eyebrow high on his forehead.

“You know...you don’t look so hot, Normie. A little gaunt.” Tony reached for the door, his hand gripping the knob harder than intended. “Maybe you should consider opening those shades. Get some sun on your face.”

Tony didn’t bother to wait for any goodbyes, not that either of the two intended to provide formalities to end their meeting. He shut the door behind him, the last sight he managed to catch being that of Norman at his desk, adjusting the green tie that hung around his neck.

Tony thought he’d be able to breathe better once leaving the office.

Walking through the lobby, he still struggled to catch his breath.

Natasha eyed him sharply from her position at his side, keeping pace as they all but rushed out of the building, quick to ditch the security that escorted them to their car.

“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” she asked, only once clear of the employees that had insisted on walking them out.

Tony pressed a button on his keychain, unlocking both doors to his Audi and climbing into the driver’s seat with more huff than he arrived with.

“Talk about it later,” he muttered harshly, locking his seat-belt into place. With Natasha in the passenger seat, he threw her a look. “You get what we needed?”

Reaching into the pocket of her blouse, she nodded, pulling out the tiny device and holding it between two fingers.

“Plus some.”

Tony forced himself to exhale, hoping it would ease even the smallest, minuscule amount of pressure that had been dragging him down.

It didn’t, but he wasn’t expecting much to at this point.

“Good,” Tony mentioned, starting up the engine to the car. “Because we need it now more than ever. Things are about to get —”

A buzzing from his phone interrupted him. So did the console attached to his dashboard, his GPS quickly flipping away to something else entirely, automatically, and without his say.

Not long after and Natasha’s phone went off as well. She shot Tony a look, one he failed to return, too busy staring at the screen of his cell.

The text message on display began to shake, his hand trembling in his grip.

“**Boss,” **FRIDAY’s voice came through the car, nearly startling Tony right out of his skin. Her Irish accent was somehow thick with concern, only adding to his stress. **“Two minutes and three seconds of footage have been obtained and subsequently erased from Midtown’s security feed.”**

Tony’s eyes quickly flickered up from the screen of his cell phone. The dashboard already showed an image of the hallways to Peter’s high-school, and next to him, Natasha leaned forward to better see the footage.

“**You’re...going to want to see this.”**

The footage began to play, just as his chest struggled for air, spasming with a hollowing, deepening crevice that only grew larger with time.

Two minutes and four seconds later, Tony slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, speeding the car dangerously fast through the streets of Manhattan.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find and reach out to me on Tumblr if you'd like - [KitCat's Tumblr](https://kitcat992.tumblr.com/)\- I love connecting with fans from all 'doms!


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